


Coming Home

by akingnotaprincess



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deaf Character, Deaf Malcolm Bright, F/M, Getting Together, Jackie Arroyo Lives, M/M, Multi, Polyfidelity, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingnotaprincess/pseuds/akingnotaprincess
Summary: It's been ten years since the true crime author and psychologist Malcolm Bright has been in New York. When the NYPD asks for his help on a case that hits close to home, he can't resist returning.Meanwhile, Gil Arroyo is stressed about an important case that is quickly going nowhere, and his wife, Jackie, can't wait to meet her favorite author.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly
Comments: 57
Kudos: 83





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story would not be here without the love and support from everyone on the Prodigal Son discord server (invite link in the end notes).
> 
> Special thanks to Rin, Spoon, Sage, Tess, and Bay. I know I must be forgetting people. Extra special thanks to Cosmic and Hannah for being epic betas.
> 
> This fic _is_ a WIP. I am not even sure how long this will be, except that it will be a monster. Currently I am working on this story every day, and have one hell of a support network behind me. Helps keep me on my toes.
> 
> If you're into playlists check out the one for this fic. It's updated when the chapters go up. [Listen here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7GUK3a5Nd8d3zfJISmr3jB?si=fd6ewDvDQ3et_hzy6UIVdw)
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> • Full Moon by The Twilight Orchestra (cover)
> 
>   
>    
> 

Subject: Contract Inquiry  
From: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
To: Malcolm Bright  
Monday, May 6, 07:31 AM

Dr. Bright,

Good morning, I hope you are well. My name is Levi Long, Assistant Chief with the Special Investigations division of the NYPD. I understand that you specialize in childhood trauma, and have collaborated with law enforcement agencies around the country in the past. You come highly recommended.

We are working an active case that could use someone with your expertise. While I cannot disclose the details until you sign the NDA, I can tell you that a young child is the only witness to the crime we are investigating. The child has refused to communicate in any way. Without the child's testimony, the remaining body of evidence simply won't stand up in a court of law.

If you should choose to accept, this case would require you to be in the city for two months, perhaps longer depending on the court proceedings, to be with the witness in person. Due to the nature of this case, we do not feel that emails or video calls would suffice. The witness will need a lot of attention. We will reimburse you for lodging costs, if needed.

We eagerly await your response.

Sincerely,

Levi Long  
Assistant Chief  
Special Investigations Division  
New York City Police Department  
Work: (646) 555-5000 ext. 5702  
Cell: (332) 555-0604

Subject: RE: Contract Inquiry  
From: Malcolm Bright  
To: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
Monday, May 6, 09:00 AM

Dear Assistant Chief Long,

Thank you for getting in touch with me. Yes, I would be more than happy to assist the NYPD. When do you need me to come to New York? I do not need help with housing, but thank you for your offer.

Regards,

Doctor Malcolm Bright, PsyD  
m. +1.202.555.7850

Subject: RE: RE: Contract Inquiry  
From: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
To: Malcolm Bright  
Monday, May 6, 11:13 AM

Dr. Bright,

Thank you for accepting the offer. Attached is your work contract and an NDA. As soon as I receive signed copies of these forms, I'll send over some of the relevant case files for you to review.

The sooner you can arrive in New York the better.

Sincerely,

Levi Long  
Assistant Chief  
Special Investigations Division  
New York City Police Department  
Work: (646) 555-5000 ext. 5702  
Cell: (332) 555-0604

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Contract Inquiry  
From: Malcolm Bright  
To: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
Monday, May 6, 04:15 PM

Levi,

Attached is the signed NDA & contract. I will check my schedule and get back to you when I will be able to make it to New York.

Regards,

Doctor Malcolm Bright, PsyD  
m. +1.202.555.7850

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Contract Inquiry  
From: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
To: Malcolm Bright  
Monday, May 6, 06:13 PM

Dr. Bright,

Everything looks in order with the NDA and contract. I have selected some files from the case for you to look over and get acquainted with Miss. Stewart's situation.

Sincerely,

Levi Long  
Assistant Chief  
Special Investigations Division  
New York City Police Department  
Work: (646) 555-5000 ext. 5702  
Cell: (332) 555-0604

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Contract Inquiry  
From: Malcolm Bright  
To: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
Wednesday, May 8, 02:54 AM

Levi,

Thank you for inviting me to join this case. I have looked over the documents you sent over. I think I will be able to make great progress with Finlay.

I can arrive in the city next week once I have concluded my business here in D.C. I will contact you when I am settled. I look forward to meeting you in person.

Regards,

Doctor Malcolm Bright, PsyD  
m. +1.202.555.7850

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join us at the Prodigal Son Trash discord server (18+). [Click here.](https://discord.gg/MyKracR)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments & kudos are love.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:  
> • Hips Don't Lie by Shakira  
> • Brooklyn Nine-Nine Theme by Stuart Petty (cover)  
> • Welcome to New York by Taylor Swift
> 
> Listen to the playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7GUK3a5Nd8d3zfJISmr3jB?si=DF4GbpH7QCmjwa8k-dPq1Q) on Spotify.

"Fuck, Jackie," Gil gasps as his wife rides his clothed leg. Her bare breasts bounce as she grinds against him. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, her head thrown back. The sounds coming from her are _delicious,_ and he's known her long enough to see the signs of her approaching orgasm. Her movements are becoming more frantic.

Softly, Jackie whispers "Yes, oh yes, _oh fuck, yes,"_ whenever Gil's thigh rubs her clit in a particular way. She bites her lower lip and lets out a sensual, long moan.

Gil pulls her forward so they're chest-to-chest but also so that the angle of her pussy changes, and she's riding his tented erection. He grabs her ass, taking control of her movements— where her clit touches, how fast or slow she's able to bounce up and down, and the pressure of her thrusts against the denim of his jeans. "Almost there, baby girl?" Gil reaches between their bodies to pinch and twist one of her nipples. "You're so needy and desperate when you're close."

Jackie nods before resting her forehead against his. Their lips brush for a brief moment, teasing each other. "Gil, Gil, Gil," she choruses. " _Fuck,_ please, can I come? Can I come, Daddy?" She nips at his neck and sucks hard enough to leave a mark.

Gil growls, grabbing her long, dark hair and pulling her head back enough so he can look into her lust-filled eyes. "Yeah, baby girl. I think you've earned it." He bites her neck, licks and sucks so Jackie will have a mark to match the one she gave him. "Come for me."

Jackie's pretty face scrunches up like she's concentrating. Her voice becomes louder and louder, and then she does her best to bite back her cry when her orgasm hits. Her arms tighten around his shoulders as her movements and her breathing slows. Jackie lets out a final long sigh and rests her head on his shoulder. "Love you," she pants. "Love you."

Gil strokes her hair, running his fingers through the long strands. "Love you, too."

A moment later Jackie untangles her arms and runs her hand down his back, over his pelvis, and touches his clothed erection. "Looks like someone still needs to be taken care of." Jackie unbuttons Gil's jeans and pulls out his hard cock. She strokes his length at the same time she sucks on his ear lobe.

"Jackie, stop teasing," Gil begs, thrusting his hips in the air. "Please." He's watched and helped her get off, and it's left him _wanting._

A smirk crosses over Jackie’s face, and she savors Gil’s obvious need for her. "Since you asked so nicely." She adjusts her position to settle herself between his spread legs, takes a deep breath, and in one go, swallows all of his thick cock. Her throat convulses around his member, and she makes the most erotic and eager sounds as she chokes. They only spur him on, and he grips Jackie's loose hair, pulling it into a pseudo-ponytail so he can see her face.

"You've always looked gorgeous with a cock down your throat," he praises.

Jackie tries to talk around his cock, but it comes out garbled. Spit escapes her mouth and dribbles down her chin onto Gil's balls.

"Such a good cock slut. Such a good whore."

Jackie looks up at Gil's face. Her eyes are starting to water, and her mascara drips down her cheeks. Wisps of her hair frame her face. She looks like a perfect mess. In the heat of the moment, Gil shoves his cock down her throat as far as it will go, her lips stretched wide to accommodate his width. Finally, she goes silent, her face turning a shade of reddish-purple.

All of a sudden, Jackie takes her right hand and raises it in the air, and instantly Gil backs off. Jackie sits up, coughing violently. Gil's hand is on her immediately, cradling her cheek. "Are you okay?" he asks once the coughing has subsided. He leans over and grabs the bottle of water he keeps on his nightstand and makes sure she drinks at least half of it.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'm okay," Jackie assures. Without another word, she grips the base of his cock with both hands and takes him back into her mouth as far as she can manage.

Gil lets out a long moan as she sinks down and hollows her cheeks at just the right moments. His breath quickens watching his wife suck him off. Jackie's alluring brown eyes stare up at him, teasing and daring him to come. It's enough to tip him over the edge. Gil's hold on her hair tightens. "Jackie, I'm about to—" He spills into her mouth, and Jackie greedily swallows all of his come.

Once his orgasm subsides, Gil pulls his wife up and fiercely kisses her, tasting himself on her tongue. He holds Jackie to his chest, stroking her hair, and rests his cheek on the top of her head. A comfortable silence fills the room after their labored breathing lets up. The room reeks of sex, and Gil doesn't mind one bit. He throws a glance at the clock on his nightstand. It's almost eight. "You want dinner?"

"Sounds good," she responds. "My choice?"

"I think you've earned it, darling."

Jackie hums thoughtfully, like she doesn't already know what her answer will be. "Shrimp ziti?"

He echoes, "Sounds good. Shouldn't take too long."

"I'm going to take a shower first." Jackie slides off the edge of the bed, giving him a quick kiss on his lips. "Go ahead and start without me." He watches Jackie grab a purple lace bra and the matching boy shorts off of the floor before heading to the bathroom. A handful of seconds later Gil hears the creaky old water pipes screech to life followed by Shakira's 'Hips Don't Lie'.

He heads down the stairs to their small kitchen. As he gathers the ingredients and equipment, he finds himself humming along to Jackie's song that he can still clearly hear. He hopes the neighbors don't complain about the noise. It wouldn't be the first time. Gil gets to work on starting dinner— chopping the garlic, sauté it in the skillet, adding the half-and-half and crushed tomatoes, and letting it all simmer. The water in the saucepan begins to boil when the music stops, and he hears Jackie's heavy footsteps descend the stairs two at a time. There's a loud thump as she jumps over the bottom two steps. He waits to see if she'll come into the kitchen but she doesn't, and he assumes that she's gone into the living room.

After the ziti is poured into the pan, Gil's startled by a high-pitched squeal. "Jackie," he calls out. "What's wrong?" Worry etches his face, thinking of all the possibilities that could be wrong. But this lasts only for a second because he knows it's not a sound of despair, it's a cry of happiness. Then, he has to wonder what has Jackie so pleased. He hears the pounding of her feet running out of the living room and down the hall as he asks, "Jackie, what is it?"

"Gil!" Jackie bursts into the kitchen, her wet hair still dripping, but is simply braided and wearing nothing but her bra and panties, holding out her phone to him. "Look! Read it!" She wiggles the phone in his face to entice him. "Take it!"

The phone is shoved into his face, and he pulls back a little so the glare of the bright screen didn't blind him. "What is it?"

Jackie exaggerates an eye roll. "Just read it!"

Gil grabs the nearest reading glasses he can find and takes her phone which is open to her email inbox. The email has a long rectangular box with a vibrant blue background with basic readable white-lettered font. The banner logo has the colors flipped with the author's name sprawling across the box from edge-to-edge. In the lower and upper corners, there are detailed drawings of pieces of green, round, hard candies in clear wrappers that are twisted at the ends. Below the logo is a 3D picture of a book. The cover shows a snowy barren landscape with the only object being a small mobile home. There's footsteps dipped into the snow leading to the trailer. The author's name is on the bottom of the cover, and on the very top is the title: The Devil of Dayton. Finally, below that is a message.

It reads:

**Good News, Brighters!**

**Malcolm Bright will be having his FIRST EVER book signing. Yes, after all these years, your favorite true crime author will be able to meet you in person!**

**You may bring your own copies of his novels to be autographed. Limit of five books per person. There will be books available to purchase, along with merchandise such as t-shirts, stickers, mugs, and more.**

**Seating at this event is limited and will require a ticket to attend. The cost of the ticket will include a copy of his latest book, THE DEVIL OF DAYTON.**

**The big day will be:**  
**Saturday, May 18th**  
**at**  
**The Strand Book Store**  
**828 Broadway at 12th Street**  
**New York, NY 10003**

**For more information on the venue visit The Strand Book Store website**

**For the dos and don'ts of book signings and for additional information, please visit the official Malcolm Bright website.**

**Don't pass up this rare opportunity! We're looking forward to seeing you there!**

The message ends with Malcolm Bright's signature, and it's neater than Gil would have thought for an author. He expected the handwriting would be sloppy like a doctor's, who routinely has to write their name over and over. Across the bottom of the email is a row of social media icons— perfectly spaced apart— YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, and what looks to him like a globe with lines that Gil assumes is an icon representing Bright's website.

Gil hands Jackie back her phone with a raised eyebrow. "He's coming to the city?"

"For a book signing, Gil!" Jackie is bouncing on the balls of her feet. "A fucking _book signing!"_

"Yeah? You going?" he asks even though he knows the answer. You could see Jackie's excitement from space. She's all smiles that reach the corners of her dark eyes. Her whole face is practically glowing. Gil finds it adorable.

"How can I not?'

"It's pretty short notice, isn't it? That's Saturday."

"Good thing I didn't have anything planned." Jackie gets up on her tip-toes and gives him a quick kiss, and Gil gets a whiff of her raspberry-scented body wash. "I'm so excited!"

"I couldn't tell at all." He laughs when she playfully smacks him then observes her doing something on her phone. "Did you buy the tickets yet? It said there's a limited number."

"Doing it now." A few seconds passed before Jackie triumphantly announces, "And done! Glad I saw the email when I did. There weren't many tickets left."

"How many tickets did you buy?"

"Just the one."

"Did you want me to tag along?" he asks out of courtesy.

She shakes her head and balks. "Hell no. You'd be bored to tears and ruin my fun. I'm always surprised that you _don't_ like true crime."

"Why do I want to read about my job in my free time?"

"A lot of cops do," she states matter of factly.

Gil points to himself. "Not this one."

Jackie shrugs. "Your loss. Go and read your romance novels."

"There's nothing wrong with romance." Gil glances back to check on the pasta for a brief second. "It's a way to escape. I don't have to think for a change. It's nice. The books are… what did you call it?"

"Fluffy," Jackie supplies with a knowing smile. "The word you're looking for is fluffy."

He points to her with the red silicone spatula he's been using. "Yes, _fluffy._ It takes my mind off things. _Unlike_ true crime."

"Your books are _also_ smutty. Gil, you read more porn than my grandmother did."

Gil cringes. "First off, I did not want that image of your grandmother reading _porn._ Secondly, not all of them are _smutty._ Most of them are emotionally charged with barely any sex."

"So, you admit that you read smut?" She hums and smirks before changing the focus of the topic. "What books should I take with me? It said there's a maximum of five."

"I'm sure it won't be a problem picking. You have a stack as tall as our nightstands to pick from." The stack is actually right next to her nightstand. Instead of putting the books on the shelf like normal people do, Jackie leaves them all there so she'll be able to grab one real quick before bed.

There's a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she speaks. "Well, I better get started narrowing down my options, then."

"You have a few days, you know. You don't have to decide now."

Jackie raises her eyebrow. "I have _all_ of his books, including first editions, paperback, hardback, ebooks, audiobooks, and every cover redesign," she says smugly. "I should get to work."

Gil watches her practically sprint out of the kitchen, humming a tune that he's pretty sure is the theme song to Brooklyn Nine-Nine. He chuckles and turns his attention back to the pasta.

\--------------------------------------------

Sunshine isn't happy with him, and he doesn't blame her. She's been trapped in a dog carrier for over three hours on a bumpy train ride. The only comfort he could give her was the thick blanket that covered her cage and tuneless humming close to the bars. Malcolm hopes that it could soothe her. As he makes his way through Penn Station, he can feel her banging around in the carrier. Malcolm can't wait to get her to the loft that will be their home for the summer. He wants to let her fly. He made sure to ask his mother for a place that had some natural light for his pet.

Malcolm's cell phone vibrates in his coat pocket. He takes it out and reads the text.

> _  
> **ADOLPHO**  
>  _
> 
> **_+19295555552_ **
> 
> **_Sir, I am waiting for you by the 8th Avenue entrance, by the doors to your right. I am holding up a sign with your name._ **
> 
> **_(11:52 AM)_ **

Malcolm looks around and spots Adolpho where he said he'd be. The man is dressed in a sharp black suit and awkwardly holding a large white poster with the word 'BRIGHT' written in neon orange. Malcolm grins as he rushes across the lobby to the dismay of many in the crowd as he pushes past them. Malcolm signs hello when he approaches Adolpho.

"Good morning, Mr. Bright. How was your trip?" Adolpho makes sure to face him directly as he speaks, and Malcolm is glad that his mother's driver remembered to. Malcolm uses his cell phone to type out three quick messages.

> _**Thank you for picking me up.** _
> 
> **_The ride was meh. Sunshine didn't like it. Too bumpy._ **
> 
> **_How are you?_ **

"I'm well, Mr. Bright. Thank you for asking. May I help you with your luggage?"

Malcolm nods yes and hands Adolpho his rolling suitcase. He's grateful that he can finally hold Sunshine's carrier more securely with both hands.

"Follow me, please. We'll be headed to your loft. It's about ten minutes from here." Adolpho waits for Malcolm to respond that he's ready to go before turning away and heading out one of the many entrances of the station. Somehow, Adolpho managed to park the family car relatively close on the street. He lets the driver put the luggage in the trunk of the car while Malcolm wrestles Sunshine safely into the back seat.

The city looks like it had when he'd called it home. There's still the same smells, some more pleasing than others. The sea of taxis still floods the lanes of the roads. He's surrounded by murals, sculptures, and graffiti showcasing how diverse and creative the city is. There's still a ton of construction, some he swears was going on when he had left for D.C. There are new shops that occupy the spaces where his favorites used to be. There seems to be more tourists than he remembers crowding the streets. A new skyscraper here or there. Nothing too drastic.

Malcolm hasn't been to New York in almost a decade, and he's kept it that way on purpose. He needed time to breathe, a chance to begin a new life with a new name. A fresh start. He had been able to shake most of his trauma off his shoulders and live for the first time in a long time. Malcolm worries that being back will be one of the worst ideas he's ever had for his mental health, but the case was too enticing and he wasn't busy. At least his mother and sister will be glad to have him practically to themselves even for a little while.

To his great surprise, the loft is actually two floors of an entire building with the only tenants himself and Sunshine. There's several flights of stairs to get to his temporary home. It's something he minds now, but sure he'll get used to it soon. Malcolm is not surprised that it is already furnished. There's a bed on a platform that already has restraints attached and an obscenely large half-moon shaped window by the bed. There's a nice kitchen set up with a range stove and a breakfast bar that will get little use.

An entire bare wall at the end of the loft has potential to be a great place to put his weapons collection. He shakes his head and pushes the thought away as quickly as it came. There's no need to start planning anything; this is only temporary.

Malcolm gently eases Sunshine's cage to the floor and opens the door to let her fly.

Not bothering to unpack, he takes off his jacket, kicks off his shoes, and lays down on one of the sofas. Malcolm syncs up his phone with the loft's Wi-Fi (he really needs to change the network name and password because his mother set it up with the predictable ones she uses for almost everything else). After that's sorted out, he browses on Amazon for items that he'd like to have but will never buy and reads through a few articles on the front page of the Washington Blade's website. Malcolm is about to open his Netflix app to continue watching a true crime documentary that he's seen at least three times when it occurs to him that he needs to check the email that's used for fan mail. He never stops being surprised that he gets fan mail at all, let alone _a lot_ of it. Malcolm tries his best to answer every email, but getting back to everyone can take a while. He figures that he should check it since his book signing is in two days. Malcolm taps on the icon for his email app, and finds one-hundred new emails waiting for him. He blows out a puff of air. While he knows his email always blows up around book releases it's still overwhelming to see at times. Malcolm decides to start at the latest email and go backwards from there.

His brow furrows when he sees the email address of the first email. The subject line is: Long time no see, my boy. There's only ever been one person who has called him by that, but it _can't_ be him. It fucking can't be. Malcolm checks who the sender is, and his stomach drops.

**Subject: Long time no see, my boy**  
**From: Doctor Martin Whitly**  
**To: Malcolm Bright**  
**Thursday, May 16, 12:35 PM**

**Malcolm, my boy,**

**Congratulations on the new book. I wish I could attend the book signing, but it appears that I'm a little tied up.**

**I see that you're back home. I've missed you. Come and visit me soon.**

Malcolm flings his phone onto the hardwood floor, and after the fact, hopes it's not damaged. How could Martin get hold of his email? Except he knows that's a stupid question. His email is listed in the 'About Me' section of his website. How was Martin allowed internet access? Who had he paid off for that privilege? More than likely, his father has been watching him for years, and the knowledge makes Malcolm's skin crawl. Why would Martin get in touch with him _now_?

Malcolm has been back in New York for less than two hours, and he already has the urge to pack up and flee. If it wasn't for the case, that's just what he would do.

It finally hits him that his right hand is twitching uncontrollably. He lifts it in the air and sees that it hasn't stopped shaking. In fact, it has gotten worse. His tremor. His fucking tremor is back after all these years. Of course it happens when he's returned to the city.

Sunshine flutters by and lands on the back of the sofa. She chirps and lightly pecks at his hair. Malcolm twists around to stroke her breast. She knows when he's upset and needs comfort.

And he most definitely needs that now.

\--------------------------------------------

As soon as the front door to his childhood home closed behind him, Malcolm sees his sister standing in the foyer, and she signs, _"Hey, bro."_ Malcolm grins as she rushes forward and wraps him into a tight hug. Her face is buried into his shoulder. Malcolm nuzzles into her hair, and squeezes back. He hasn't seen her in person for two years. Their different schedules for school and work combined with Malcolm's stubbornness about never returning to the city made opportunities for being in the same room few and far between. He's used to texting, emails, and video calls to communicate with her. Now, they had the entire summer to catch up.

Reluctantly, she lets go and looks him up and down. "You look good," she comments out loud. "Trust you to be one of the only people on the planet who wears a tailored suit when it's summer. It's almost eighty outside."

He shrugs, and signs. _"What can I say? I feel the most comfortable like this."_

It's his turn to look her over. Ainsley looks good and like she's over the moon to see him once again. Her infectious smile hasn't left for a second. She's grown out her hair past her shoulders, and it's curling at the bottom. Ainsley is dressed more appropriately for the weather then he is— a nice, black v-neck tank top and Capri pants. He wonders offhand if she's still dating Jin and makes a mental note to ask later.

_"Where's mother?"_

_"Putting on her makeup, I think. She's very happy that you're home. Had all your favorite foods made."_

_"We're feasting on lollipops and licorice?"_

His sister giggles. _"If only. She's had all of your old favorites made. How are you even alive when you survive on junk food?"_

Malcolm pulls a face. " _I dunno_." He heaves a great sigh. _"This is going to suck."_

_"Not going to run out on me are you?"_

_"Of course I won't. Whenever have I done that?"_

Ainsley eyes him, unconvinced, and speaks aloud. "All. The. Time."

Malcolm feigns a gasp and places his palm over his heart. _"I'm a perfect angel around Mother. Why would her incessant need to pry into my personal life make you think I would leave in the middle of a meal?"_

They stand there in the foyer giggling like children. As her laughter starts to subside, Ainsley opens up, "I've missed you," making sure he sees her lips. "It's been way too long." She jerks her head towards the rest of the house. "Come on. Let's face our mother together." He shakes his sister off for a moment to take off his nice coat and drapes it over the arm of the settee. It's as he's smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt when his sister taps his shoulder. Malcolm turns to see his mother walking into the room with her arms open wide.

"Mal—" he catches before his mother drags him into a hug for a moment and kisses both of his cheeks. She places her gentle hands on his shoulders. "How are you? You look like you haven't eat—" she turns her face to the side like she's looking behind him. "—sides—" Again, she doesn't face him directly so he has absolutely no idea of what she's saying. "th—."

He wants to remind her again that when she speaks verbally that he needs to see her head-on or he can't read her lips. He gave up on trying years ago. He's nearly thirty-two years old and has been deaf for as long as he can remember. If she doesn't get it by now then she never will.

"Let's have dinner, shall we? I had all your favorites prepared."

Ainsley shares a look with him as they trail behind their mother. He's guessing that their mother is talking by the way her hands move in the air, but with her back to them he had no idea what she's saying. Malcolm sends his sister a quizzical look and signs _"Is she talking?"_

Aisnley nods.

_"What's she saying? Anything about me?"_

_"No. She's going on about a trip she took to M-O-N-T B-O-R-O-N and claims she saw E-L-T-O-N J-O-H-N and they talked about something or other."_

Malcolm rolls his eyes but quickly sobers when his mother turns around to face them and gestures for them all to sit. The long dining table is set with a fine silk cloth that his mother only brings out for special occasions. He sits in the chair to his mother's left— the one always designated as his. Malcolm scoots the chair across the floor to face his mother better so he could understand what she said. He makes a show out of pulling out his phone and opens up his text-to-speech app and shows his mother and sister the screen before setting the phone down on the table by his dominant hand for easy access.

"Malcolm," his mother starts. He wonders what her voice sounds like. Is it sickeningly sweet or annoyed, or genuinely happy? He doesn't remember. "It's been so long since all three of us have been together."

Malcolm quickly types, "Yes, it has. It's good to see you both."

"Well, who wants to start?" His mother asks them, as if she's not going to begin otherwise. "I've been thinking of doing some charity work."

Malcolm frowns because she turns away to look at Ainsley. She says something and laughs before taking a sip from her glass of wine that is already half-gone. He's always felt so isolated when she does this.

Ainsley keeps her face in a good view for Malcolm to see so he can lip read. "I think the Cape Primrose would look lovely in the sitting room. They'll look better than Oxalis. Did you want me to order some and pick them up for you?"

He mouths and signs, 'thank you'. He watches as his sister's eyes shift to look at their mother. Malcolm checks and sees that she's still not facing him or using ASL. His mother is talking to his sister, about what, he has no idea. Malcolm hopes that it isn't obvious that he's bored.

"Mother, remember that Malcolm doesn't know what you're saying if you aren't looking at him. He can only lip read if you look straight at him."

His mother grimaces and seems like she wants to say something, but she restrains herself and finally angles herself to face him. "Love, how's D.C.?

Malcolm quickly types his response on his phone. "What do you want to know?" the app announces out loud in his place. "The Cherry Blossom Festival? How we don't have true representation in Congress? If Abe Lincoln's chair is comfortable? It's a broad question."

His mother frowns when the robotic voice comes out of the speakers. She looks between his phone and his eyes and back again. She puts on a fake smile— something he's seen more and more over the years. "Why, I don't know, Malcolm. Tell me about anything."

Malcolm makes sure to type as fast as he can. He has a lot to say, and his mother isn't the most patient person. He's not much of a fan of small talk, and typing it out on a phone is practically hellish. Malcolm tells her about how he and a couple of his friends participated in this year's International Pillow Fight Day. They'd decorated their pillows with the ASL signs for the event. How he'd tried rock climbing with a local ASL group and found out rather quickly that he hates rock climbing. Malcolm is taking care that he does not mention the one thing that is integral to his life, but that she wants to be privy to. It's clear that she's not listening, her eyes are glazed over, her smile fixed, and she occasionally nods— she didn't actually want to know how his life was going.

There's three taps on the table that he feels since one of his hands is on the wood. He catches his sister's attention. She signs, _"Wait. Go back. International Pillow Fighting Day?"_

Malcom can tell that his face lights up at the question. Without thinking, his hands fly up to reply, _"Yes! It's so much fun."_

_"You need to explain this to me."_

_"What's there to explain? It's an event at the Mall where everyone pillow fights."_

_"Like actual pillow fighting? Like little kids jumping on the bed, hitting each other in the faces until one of them cries and goes to mom to tattle?"_

_"I wasn't the one who ran to mother, it was you!"_

Ainsley jumps and turns her body to face their mother, so he mirrors this too. She is glaring at them. Malcolm puts his hands in his lap and stares down at them, ashamed.

Now that she has their attention, Mother looks pleased again. "Malcolm have you found yourself a girlfriend, yet? Or boyfriend?"

Slowly, he places one hand in the air and is about to have his middle and forefinger close down on his thumb and shake his head no, when he stops. Malcolm reaches for his phone and lets the app translate for him. "No, mother. There's no one."

"Oh, Malcolm, are you even _trying_ to date? I know you're busy, but that doesn't mean that you can't have fun. Well, if you want, I can introduce you to the Cunnigham's youngest daughter, Ora. She's such a smart girl. She's in her last semester at CUNY— she's going to be a lawyer. I'm not sure what kind of law she wants to practice, but I'm sure it's prestigious. Ora is almost ten years younger than you, but that shouldn't be too much of an issue. She's very mature for her age."

"Mother—" he types, but she doesn't listen.

"Or there is Kristopher and Regina Blake's son, Max. You remember him, don't you? I think you two went to school together."

Malcolm purses his lips. Oh yes, of course he remembers Max. He's one of the kids growing up who taunted him and made his life a living hell for having a serial killer for a father and for being "deaf and dumb". While Max Blake had never left any physical bruises or scars, inwardly, Malcolm had felt broken.

"—banker. Apparently, he's quite good. I had brunch with Regina last Sunday, and she was telling me that he's had a recent break up. Very nasty one, too. Poor thing. But Max is on the market." She laughs. "Or there's--"

"Mother, I'm not looking for a relationship right now. Especially in New York." The automated voice is flat and disjointed, not at all conveying the annoyance he's feeling.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He rolls his eyes. "I'm only here for the summer, Mother. After that, I'm going back to D.C. and living my own life. I don't need to start something complicated."

"Back to your own life?" Her nostrils flare, and she takes another sip of her wine. "What about your life, Malcolm? I certainly know nothing about yours. You never text, you never email."

"I do. It's not my fault that you never respond."

"You never come home--"

"D.C. is my home."

"Excuse me?"

He types out, "There's nothing for me here", but cringes and rewrites, "You could have visited me."

"Your _family_ is here. You're four hours away!"

"Ainsley visits me. Why can't you? It's not like you have an actual job besides sucking up to anyone who can stand you."

He can tell that his mother's rage is building. Her eyes have widened, and her posture changes so her back is straight, giving her the appearance that she is taller than she is. "And what do you do? Hm?" She throws an arm up in the air gesturing. "You had to write crime novels and consult on police investigations. Why do you let yourself get hung up on the past? Why can't you stay away from murder? Why can't you let it go?"

"It helps my mental health, Mother. It helps me deal with my trauma." Malcolm is so close to typing out a spiteful "And how do you deal with the past? Self-medicating is so healthy."

"How on earth can that help?!"

"I am a psychologist, you know. I think I would know what works best for me."

"Yes, and you're a damn good psychologist. Why not teach or even open your own practice?"

Malcolm clicks his tongue in annoyance. "Because I never wanted to do those things. I've told you that. Several times."

"Then why get two doctorates, Malcolm? Why waste years of hard work to not use it for something meaningful?"

"How is consulting on cases with traumatized children not meaningful?"

"Tha— ny— why—" His mother is getting worked up, talking faster than his lip reading skill can follow. She's glaring daggers at him, and Malcolm thinks that she might be slurring her words. "See—"

Malcolm feels his agitation growing in his chest. As fast as he can manage without any misspelled words, he types out for the droning voice to read: "You're doing it again. I know you're angry, but—"

His mother opens her mouth and interrupts her preferred way to communicate with Malcolm. "Why couldn't you get the Cochlear implants like I wanted you to? Why can't you just be _normal?!"_

The room stills. No one moves. Malcolm feels like he wants to collapse in a heap and never get back up. It feels as if the floor has caved in, and he's falling, falling, falling.

He shoots Ainsley with a quick glance. His sister sits there, completely stunned, mouth hanging open and her eyes darting between two of them. Malcolm takes a deep breath, exhales. He pushes away his chair from the table and stands up. He squares his shoulders and looks his mother in the eye and signs, " _I'm sorry that I can't be the son you wanted. Goodbye, mother. I love these little check-ups_."

Malcolm swipes his phone off the table and doesn't bother looking back; he hurries out of the room as fast as he can. He imagines that Mother is confused at what he said and demanding Ainsley to translate. Let her, he thinks. It's what his mother deserves.

Once Malcolm is out of view of the dining room, he brings the back of his hand to his eyes and wipes away the tears that threaten to spill over.

After his father's conviction, his mother had become less and less supportive of him. For years, he's felt distant from her. It's a gap that gets wider by the year, and Malcolm can't imagine any bridge that could help mend what has been broken. It's like he's an embarrassment to her. That's it. That's all he is. He feels like it's a bit of a blessing when he reaches the sofa where he'd left his coat. His palms rest on the back of it, and he screws up his eyes and takes a few calming breaths. Malcolm needs to collect himself before he steps out that door. He refuses to let his mother's insecurities follow him. True, she'd been nice enough to set him up with a very comfortable loft in Nolita, but that had been their first communication in a year. The first gift she had given him in years.

Someone catches his arm as he slips it into his jacket. He flinches at their touch and swings his other arm around, but stops a second before his fist would have made contact. Malcolm's face softens. He holds up his hands to apologize, but his sister shakes her head.

" _Sorry_ , _that was my bad. I know better than to do that_."

He shrugs a shoulder and continues to put on his jacket.

" _Please don't listen to her. Mother can be a bitch_."

" _It's true, though. Isn't she right_?"

Ainsley scoffs. " _No, she is a bitch. She shouldn't have said any of it. She's intoxicated. Once she sobers up, she'll feel like shit and apologize_." She holds up a finger when he tries to interrupt. " _You are doing what is best for you. It's her problem that she refuses to understand why you do what you do, not yours. It's your choice how to live your life. You did not abandon us. She could have picked up a phone at any time to connect, but she didn't_. _"_ Ainsley steps forward and grasps his hands. " _You are normal. You know it._ "

Now it's his turn to scoff. _"You know I'm not."_

_"Yes, you are. Sure, you have your flaws, and a shit load of trauma--"_

_"That's being charitable."_

His sister gives him a dirty look to make him shut up. _"But that doesn't make you any less of a person. You've been through so much, and through it all, you have battled and fought to climb out of it. You're one of the best, bravest people I know. You are not what mother says you are."_

_"Thank you."_

_"By the way, you did what you said you wouldn't do."_

_"What's that?"_

_"You're leaving during dinner."_

_"I said in the middle of the meal. The first course of licorice hadn't even been served yet. But I am sorry."_ He pauses briefly. He considers if he really wants to ask her for a favor. He knows he needs someone to help him, and he'd rather it be someone he knew. _"Can you do something for me?"_

 _"What is it?_ "

_"I have a book signing coming up."_

Her face lights up. _"M-"_ Ainsley presses her index finger to her forehead and flicks it up and out, completing his name sign. _"That's great! I'm so proud of you. Wait, is it going to be here?"_

Malcolm nods yes. _"Yeah, I'm terrified."_

_"What made you want to do it?"_

_"Well, you know how my agent has been on me for years to do a book signing? He claims he gets requests all the time. I told him how I was coming to the city, and he practically jumped on me. Apparently, I have a big fan base here. Kind of hilarious, don't you think? Given our history here?"_

His sister sighs. _"Way to bring a room down_. _"_

_"Sorry."_

_"Don't be. It is kind of funny. I am surprised that you agreed to do it."_

Malcolm shrugs again. _"It's something to do while I'm here for the case. Keep my mind off…"_ He trails off and doesn't finish the sentence. He stops abruptly because he can feel the tell-tale signs of his hand tremor. He grasps his right hand with his left and curls it into a fist. That's not worrisome at all…

His sister's slim fingers curl around his right wrist, and she squeezes. Malcolm looks up at her face, and he can tell she's concerned. They stand there, not saying a word. She's there to comfort him. Ainsley knows his trauma and his secrets— besides their mother, Ainsley is the only one to know. Malcolm isn't sure how long they stay there, but finally he nods, and she lets go of him.

She continues as if they hadn't stopped the conversation, _"How did your agent arrange a book signing so quickly? The police contacted you what? Last week_? _"_

Malcolm nods again. _"Like I said, I have a lot of fans here. According to her, it didn't take too many calls to find somewhere to squeeze me in. She had to turn down offers. Apparently, it's big that I'm doing a book signing after all these years. Tickets went on sale on the twelfth and sold out within a few hours_."

 _"That's fantastic! You should be proud of yourself."_ He's not. _"I can see your mind putting yourself down, bro. You're amazing_ , _"_ she emphasizes the word amazing. _"You don't give yourself enough credit. Okay? You hear me?"_

Malcolm smiles cheekily, and swipes his index finger from his ear to his mouth. They both laugh so hard their sides hurt. Malcolm wipes happy tears from his eyes. When he finally recovers, he tells her sincerely, _"I needed that. If the book signing goes well, she wants me to go to Crime Con. They've been wanting me as a guest for years."_

_"Crime Con would be huge for you! Why haven't you done it yet?"_

He quirks an eyebrow. _"Same reason I don't like doing book signings. It's hard for people to understand how to interact with someone who's deaf. So, wouldn't an event be the same way?"_

" _You know that's silly, right?_ "

Malcom digs his hands into his pockets. He doesn't feel like answering, and he thinks that his sister gets the hint. " _So, what did you need to ask me?_ " she asks, finally rounding back to the beginning of the conversation.

Malcolm runs his hand through his hair before answering. " _I'm going to need an interpreter, and it's short notice to find one. I know you've never done it before, but could you be my interpreter at the book signing?_ "

Malcolm lets out a surprised gasp as Ainsley launches herself into his embrace. His arms are jutting out awkwardly and can only manage giving her an awkward pat on the back.

When she lets go, she's smiling. " _Of course I will_!" She hugs him again and lifts her hands to sign but stops and twists around to look back at the hall. When she turns back to face him, she looks apologetic. " _Mother is yelling. You might want to escape while you can_."

Malcolm feels his phone vibrate in his pocket but doesn't check it. _"I'll text you later."_ He waves goodbye and leaves. The sun hits his face, and he tilts his face up towards the sky like a desperate flower starving for warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join us at the Prodigal Son Trash discord server (18+). [Click here.](https://discord.gg/MyKracR)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments & kudos are love.


	3. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up later today or tomorrow.

Subject: Stewart Case  
From: Malcolm Bright  
To: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
Friday, May 17, 03:44 AM

Levi,

I am writing to inform you that I'm in the city. Would it be feasible for you if I started work on Monday? How would you like to proceed?

Regards,

Doctor Malcolm Bright, PsyD  
m. +1.202.555.7850

Subject: RE: Stewart Case  
From: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
To: Malcolm Bright  
Friday, May 17, 10:02 AM  


Dr. Bright,

I am pleased to hear from you again. Thank you for coming to New York on such short notice.

If it fits your schedule, could you come down to the precinct on Monday at nine a.m.? Please check in with the receptionist, you will be on the visitor list. Make sure to bring a form of I.D.

We're all happy to have your help with this case. We'd like to get started on this as soon as possible.

Levi Long  
Assistant Chief  
Special Investigations Division  
New York City Police Department  
Work: (646) 555-5000 ext. 5702  
Cell: (332) 555-0604

Subject: RE: RE: Stewart Case  
From: Malcolm Bright  
To: Assistant Chief Levi Long  
Friday, May 17, 10:16 AM

Levi,

Nine o'clock on Monday sounds great. I will see you then.

Regards,

Doctor Malcolm Bright, PsyD  
m. +1.202.555.7850

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join us at the Prodigal Son Trash discord server (18+). [Click here.](https://discord.gg/MyKracR)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments & kudos are love.


	4. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're into playlists check out the one for this fic. It's updated when the chapters go up. [Listen here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7GUK3a5Nd8d3zfJISmr3jB?si=fd6ewDvDQ3et_hzy6UIVdw)
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> • A Better Son/Daughter by Rilo Kiley  
> • Watch What Happens Next by Waterparks

The axe rotates several times in the air until it hits the thick, black line of the outer ring, only a few centimeters more and he would have missed the target completely and hit the plain plywood board. Malcolm strides to the target and pulls the hatchet out from the wood. He's been at this for an hour, and every single one of his throws has been horrible, embarrassing for someone of his caliber. After all, there's a reason he's a two-time medalist.

After sending the email to Levi, Malcolm has found himself Googling axe throwing spots in NYC. The most promising was one in Brooklyn, Kick Axe. It definitely catered more to the curious, like the majority of axe-throwing venues, but he hadn't cared. He'd needed to get out some aggression, and Kick Axe was only a fifteen minute drive away from his loft. Malcolm used his Uber app and hitched a ride across the Brooklyn Bridge, arriving a few minutes before the place opened, so he was lucky to get a range all to himself. 

Malcolm returns to the designated throw line, which is closer than he's used to in competitions. He grips the axe in his dominant hand, holding it at his side. Taking a deep breath, Malcolm raises the axe above his head with both hands and zeroes in on the bullseye.

His mother's contorted and furious face flashes before him.

_"Why can't you just be normal?!"_

The axe leaves his hand, bounces off the wood panel, and clatters to the floor. Malcolm grunts and eyes the elderly gentleman man who is supervising him. Momentarily, the man looks up from the book he's reading, but he doesn't seem bothered that Malcolm missed the target and returns to his task.

Malcolm balls up his fists as he goes to retrieve the axe. This is the reason why he needed to come here. He had felt so drained after his fight with mother at dinner. They hadn't seen each other in years, and then she goes and says _that_. 

Malcolm bends and picks up the axe, returning to the line once again. Ainsley had tried to assure and calm him, but she could only say so much. He got an hour of sleep, so he spent his time researching a case that took place in Long Island for his next book. Malcolm watched old videos from the _Ask A Mortician_ YouTube channel, exercised, and recorded, edited, and posted a new ASL interpretation music video. But, no matter how much he distracted himself, Malcolm couldn't get it out of his head. That one word replayed over and over in his mind.

_Normal._

Malcolm throws the axe. Misses. Automatically goes to retrieve it.

He wishes he could be normal. It seems like it was his fate to be as fucked up as a person could be. Malcolm tries to forget his thoughts in the routine of throwing one axe after another.

Throws. The axe lands in the bottom ring, barely sticking in the target. Retrieves.

Having a prolific serial killer as a father ruined any chance he had at being normal. Practically being groomed by said serial killer father only made it all worse. A father who is now trying to weasel his way back into Malcolm's life. 

Throws. The axe lands a few feet away from the wall, missing the target entirely. Retrieves.

He sighs, crouches down, and puts down the axe at his feet. Staring at the center of the target, he imagines himself going through the motions of his throwing technique. Malcolm knows how to do this, and he knows beating himself up isn't helping at all. 

Malcolm's mind wanders to Finlay Stewart, and his heart aches. After reading the file, he wants to help her _badly._ She's only nine, but he can see himself in her. She's smart— straight A's in school and is already in several advanced classes. Finlay has many hobbies that most children of that age group would have no interest in: birdwatching, candle-making, and fencing, of all things. She's the reason he's been brought onto the case, that made him say yes— what pulled him back to New York after ten years. They share eerily similar trauma, and he knows that he can guide her through this. While Malcolm is well aware of what happened to her will haunt her for the rest of her life, he's hopeful that he can help her take the first steps towards recovery.

Malcolm stands and mentally prepares himself. He knows how to do this. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. He lets out a long exhale and opens his eyes. He can do this.

He throws, and the axe hits the center of the bullseye.

Malcolm smiles to himself as he stares at the mark. It's in no way his first perfect bullseye, but it is his first back in New York. He pats his pants pocket but finds that his phone isn't there. Must be in his coat that he shed once he stepped onto the range.

Shit. What time is it?

He rolls up the sleeve of his white dress shirt and turns the face of his Patek Phillippe to see the time. 1:26. Damnit. He's supposed to meet his sister at Central Park at 2:15, and he's around thirty minutes away. Under normal circumstances, that would be fine, but he's going to need time to get his things together, sign out of the range, get an Uber, and rush to their meeting spot. 

Malcolm has fifteen minutes left on his range time, but family calls. He picks up his coat, pulls out his phone, and sends Ainsley a message that he'll be a little late. It's not too surprising to see the notification pop up on the top of the screen almost instantly answering text from her saying "no problem". Next, he makes his way up to the target board, takes several pictures of the axe stuck in the very middle of the target, and takes a few selfies to commemorate. Malcolm plans to show the photos to his league back home. Maybe he'll post it on social media, too. He rarely updates his accounts, yet has close to fifty-thousand followers on each platform he's on. Why anyone would follow him despite the number of times he uploads anything is a mystery. 

Malcolm finds himself grinning as he signs out. Things are looking up, for a change.

* * *

He closes all of the blinds to his office to darken the room a little bit as a possible migraine has been lurking all day. Gil took some ibuprofen a couple hours ago, so he won't be able to take any again for another four hours. He sits down behind his desk and buries his face in his hands. Being the head of Major Crimes meant that he oversaw all of the investigations, but there is only the one at the forefront of his mind right now. A serial killer is on the loose and has made Manhattan their hunting ground for three months. Their body count is already up to seven. All single women under the age of forty. All with red hair and slim builds. All strangled with items that happened to be near or at the crime scene. There have never been any prints. No DNA. No security camera footage. No witnesses… until now. 

One of the doors to Gil's office opens and closes, taking him out of his thoughts. He looks up to see that JT and Dani have walked in without knocking. They both look haggard. JT's shoulders are slumped, and Gil is fairly certain he's wearing the same shirt as yesterday unless he somehow managed to get a mustard stain on the same place twice in two days. Dani's eyes have bags under them that are visible even in this lighting. She has two styrofoam cups, one in each hand that undoubtedly have coffee in them. Both cups are probably for her. Without saying a word, they sit down opposite him. 

"Anything new?" Gil asks, but he already knows the answer. 

JT's already deep voice sounds rough, like he is parched. "Not unless you think a whole lot of dead ends as 'new'."

"That's what I was afraid of." Gil feels a pang behind his right eye and massages his temple. The migraine is getting worse. These last few weeks have been hellish. He tries his best not to bring work back home, so when he's actually at work, all the stress comes back tenfold.

"We aren't getting anywhere," Dani expresses, frustrated. "We only have a single lead, and she's not getting any louder."

"That might change soon," Gil announces, and watches as the two of them perk up at his words. "We're getting a consultant."

"A consultant?" Dani asks through a yawn. 

Gil shakes his head yes. "Long says they'll be arriving on Monday. We need to cooperate with them, okay? They'll be helping us get through to Finlay."

"We definitely need that," Dani mutters dryly before taking a sip of coffee.

JT cocks his head. "Where are they from? FBI—"

"Independent," he fills in. "Long says they come _highly recommended,_ whatever that is supposed to mean. Hopefully, it won't turn out to be a bust."Gil shrugs. "I didn't catch the name. Callum? Martin? I'll have to check later." He can' help but shudder when he says 'Martin'. It's been twenty years, and he's tamed his fear of The Surgeon so that he's able to go about his life, but every once in a while it all comes back. Being so close to becoming a victim of a serial killer is a trauma no one can shake off.

"Those names don't sound anything alike, bro."

"What's Callum Martin consulting us on, anyway?" Dani seems to be in a better mood already, amused by his fumble. 

"He's an expert in childhood trauma. Long says he's been on the scene for years but has never accepted to work with the NYPD before. He seemed optimistic."

"At least someone is," JT grumbles. "We've been chasing this killer for months. Who says some random dude can get Finlay to tell us what she saw?"

"We'll see for ourselves on Monday, won't we?" Gil groans, squeezes his eyes shut when he feels a particularly bad stab behind his eye.

"Migraine?" Dani asks gently, keeping her voice soothing. 

"Yeah," he groans. "Pretty bad." After the stabbing feeling subsides, he has to admit defeat. "I'm going home. I can't work like this. I'll have my cell, call me if anything changes."

"Do you want a lift?" JT offers. "I could drive you back to your place in your car so you don't have to pick it up later."

Dani chimes in, "I can drive behind you in the squad car so JT doesn't have to take a cab."

Gil softly smiles. "You two just want to go to the deli near my house." 

Immediately, they sputter "No way" and "I don't know what you're talking about," shaking their heads. He stands up and tosses the keys to the Le Mans to JT. "Come on, let's go before I regret this."

* * *

The car drops him off at Grand Army Plaza. Malcolm signs his goodbye and thanks to the driver before leaving. He opens the Uber app and gives them five stars and a good tip. For some reason, the park isn't busy for May, not that Malcolm minds. He jogs down the concrete path to where he and his sister agreed to meet. He's late, but at least he's not _insanely_ late. Malcolm promises himself he'll make it up to her later. 

Ainsley finally looks in his direction, and he waves to get her attention, and after a few seconds, she waves back. As he gets closer, he can see that his sister is holding two Starbucks coffee cups. Damn, he forgot that they agreed she'd grab them coffee. Now, he feels terrible for being late because who knows how long she's been standing there with two cold coffees. 

Malcolm catches his breath once he reaches her. He signs thanks when he takes the cup from her. He takes a moment to check the name sloppily hand written on the side then breaks out into a grin.

_"Hello, A-S-H-L-E-E."_

"Hardy-har-har." Ainsley rolls her eyes. "At least it wasn't Agnes. Again." She jerks her head and instructs, "C'mon," and starts to walk away from him.

Malcolm sips greedily from his S'mores Frappe as he follows behind and catches up so they can walk side-by-side. Malcolm drinks up the sights of Central Park. He hasn't been here in so long, and it's just as beautiful as he remembers. D.C. is stunning, but nothing can beat Central Park. It's an urban oasis, a sanctuary for New Yorkers. The skyscrapers take away from the natural beauty of the park, but in a way, it adds to the allure. It screams New York. 

Once they reach Gapstow Bridge, Ainsley stops at the highest part of the arch and places her elbows on the ledge. For once, there's no one else around them on the bridge. Malcolm doesn't remember the last time that happened, if ever.

_"So, axe throwing?"_ she inquires. _"That was pretty quick. I would have figured you would wait longer than twenty-four hours to find a range."_

He shrugs noncommittally. _"I needed to relax, and axe throwing is relaxing. It helps me clear my head."_

_"Whatever floats your boat."_ Ainsley takes a sip from her own drink— iced blonde vanilla latte. Her whole demeanor turns serious, eyes looking him up and down to gauge his reaction to whatever she has to say.

_"Whatever it is you want to tell me, just get it over with."_

She waits a few moments longer, and her brow furrows. Ainsley takes a small sip from her coffee. _"Mother felt terrible after you left."_

Malcolm's cheery mood sours in a second. _"Good. I'm glad. She should feel bad."_

_"Not arguing with you there. What she said…"_ Ainsley shakes her head. _"It wasn't right. I'm just letting you know that she felt bad."_

_"Did you tell her what I said?"_ Malcolm wants her to know. He's not a spiteful person, there's no room for that in his life. The one exception is stuff like this. Malcolm has had to deal with his fair share of ableism over the past two decades, but he refuses to tolerate that bullshit from family.

Ainsley scrunches up her face and signs so-so. _"I told her enough. After I did, she sat down and didn't do or say anything. Just sat there. That's when I went after you. Then, when she got out of her funk, she started yelling until I came back. She asked where you were. I told her you left, she shut down again. I ended up staying there for most of the night to make sure she was okay."_

_"And is she?"_ Malcolm doesn't know why he should care after last night.

_"I don't think so. She called me this morning, distraught over it all, and told me to tell you that she was sorry."_

Malcolm scoffs and rolls his eyes. _"What bullshit."_

_"Don't shoot the messenger."_

_"Mother shouldn't have to use a messenger to apologize to me."_ His hands speed so fast that Ainsley has to interrupt to tell him to slow down. Malcolm repeats himself and adds, _"She's a grown woman, for fuck's sake."_

Malcolm sighs in frustration before slurping up the whipped cream at the bottom of his drink. He takes a moment to look at the expanse of the pond. Not far away is a family of ducks. They look cute, he thinks. The ducklings look confused and paddling this way and that without any sense of grace. The two adult ducks keep circling all of the ducklings to keep them together. Malcolm certainly doesn't envy them. Parenting a raft of ducks seems way too hard and chaotic. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm notices a lone duckling struggling by itself, treading water.

_"Can we change the subject?" he suggests._

Ainsley nods in agreement then does a double take. _"You're finished already?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"M-, that was a V-E-N-T-I that you finished in like, ten minutes tops."_

_"I wish you had gotten two. They're delicious, and it's not like they're available all year. Maybe I'll stop by a S-T-A-R-B-U-C-K-S before heading back to the loft. Oh."_ Malcolm realizes something. Homesickness washes over him. _"D-C has a S-T-A-R-B-U-C-K-S that caters to the deaf and mute. Everything is in sign language. It's one of my favorite places to go. It's nice, going somewhere I can talk normally. I guess I'll use my phone to communicate. D-C's deaf community is crazy huge and supportive."_ Malcolm didn't realize how much he'd miss it. Usually when he takes cases, they can be done remotely or the location is close enough that he could go home at the end of the day. If a case was out of his area, Malcolm would only be gone for a few days, tops. He didn't realize how much he'd miss things being so easily accessible, so soon.

Ainsley nudges him. _"Hey, don't be so glum. I'm sure you'll be able to find others here, too. This summer won't be all bad. You have me to hang out with. I've missed you."_

_"I've missed you, too."_

His sister puts her head on his shoulder, and Malcolm rests his cheek on the top of her head. _"Enough sadness,"_ she signs. _"Tell me what's happened since we talked last."_

Malcolm smirks mischievously. _"Since last night? Well, I went back to the loft. Had trouble sleeping, of course. Emailed my new boss, went axe throwing, and came here. You're all caught up."_

Ainsley gives him the middle finger, and he breaks out into laughter. 

_"Nothing much, A-I-N-S. Promise. It's all been pretty boring."_

_"Then tell me the boring."_

_"I started doing some research for a new book. It's a case with a wrongful conviction. It was in Long Island, actually. Back in nineteen-eighty-eight, "_ Before he realizes it, Malcolm is excited and engrossed in talking about work. _"M-A-R-T-Y T-A-N-K-L-E-F-F wakes up to find that his adoptive mother has long been dead, and that his adoptive father is near death. He was a naiveseventeen year old at the time. The cops were corrupt and had tunnel vision, so they arrested him for murder and M-A-R-T-Y was coerced into giving a confession. He spent close to twenty years in prison until he was able to prove he was innocent with D-N-A. All evidence of the double homicide points to the father's crooked business partner, but the police aren't planning on re-opening the case. It's definitely a story worth telling."_

_"What happened to M-A-R-T-Y after he was released from prison?"_

Malcolm smiles cheekily, and lifts his head off of Ainsley's, and waits for her to look at his face. _"He became a lawyer specializing in criminal defense cases. I follow him on I-N-S-T-A-G-R-A-M."_

Ainsley laughs. _"Good for him. That's definitely book-worthy. I'm a little jealous that I didn't stumble upon it before you."_

_"It happened years ago. I was planning on reaching out to him to see if he would be open to interviews. Maybe we could do it as a team? Somehow. I don't think enough people know about this case."_

Ainsley's eyebrows raise with intrigue. _"That could be fun. Maybe we could do a cross-promotion? Like showing the interview right before the book is published for publicity?"_

_"Don't get too attached to the idea. We don't know if he'd agreed to be interviewed, or if that's what I'll pick as the case for my next book. There's a few others that I'm looking at as well."_

_"Keep that on the front burner. Let me know when you decide to go through with it."_ She takes a beat to drink her latte. _"What's going on in your personal life?"_

Malcolm frowns and feels his mood beginning to sour once more. _"I'd rather not talk about it after the debacle with Mother."_ He feels terrible about it. He loves Ainsley, but it's easier telling her about his professional life right now. _"I'm still exhausted from last night. I'll tell you everything later."_

_"It's okay. I get it. I'll let it slide. For now. Can I ask questions about other things, then? Work related?"_

_"Sure."_ Malcolm relaxes and leans his weight casually against the bridge.

_"When's the last time you consulted on a case?"_

Malcolm thinks for a moment. _"Two months ago? Two and a half? It was in F-R-E-D-E-R-I-C-K-S-B-U-R-G. The commute was only an hour A-M-T-R-A-K ride both ways, so it wasn't too bad. It only lasted for a couple days, anyway. The case wasn't a big one."_

_"And this one is?"_ she inquires.

_"Yeah. It's big. Believe me. It's really big. Don't ask me if I can say anything more than that. I'm not allowed to. I had to sign a N-D-A."_

_"Okay, then. My investigative journalism instincts are piqued, but I'll back off."_ She stares off into the distance, and sips on her coffee. _"Hey, what do you want to know about my life, then? Almost nothing is off limits."_

_"How's work going?"_ He asks her. 

_"First off, that's a boring question to ask right off the bat when I said there weren't any limits. Work is okay. I mean, sort of. I'm still doing on scene reporting. Which is fine. I just want to do more than that."_

He gives her an expression of mock surprise. _"Eye on an anchor chair?"_

_"Of course."_

Malcolm nods. He can visualize it. Ainsley would make a good news anchor, but he wonders how much of snooping around and finding out the truth she'd miss.

_"Are you still with J-I-N?"_

She finishes up the last of her drink before answering. _"Yeah, we're still together. It's been six months now._ _J-I-N is doing well. He's studying for a certification for a new editing software. He moved into my place a few weeks ago."_

_"Does Mother know about him moving in?"_

Ainsley blows a raspberry. _"Of course not. She doesn't know I'm with anyone."_ At Malcolm's questioning stare, she continues. _"I'll tell her at some point. Just not now."_

_"I'm not judging you. If I was with someone, I'd hold back on telling her, too. She's…"_ His hands still as he tries to think of a word. Their mother had been through a lot. She and he were the two most impacted by finding out who Martin Whitly really was. Ainsley barely remembers their father, and sometimes Malcolm is glad about that. She never had to deal with any trauma. Malcolm and their mother, though? Malcolm continues to sign, _"Complicated."_

_"Complicated is being generous."_

_"Maybe. Maybe not."_

He runs his fingers through his hair, his bangs falling back against his eyes. Looking ahead to the pond, he sees several families of ducks swimming about in circles. Some are swimming rather fast to the edge of the pond, and Malcolm turns his gaze and sees a young couple with three small children. The couple are cuddling on a bench while the kids throw chunks of bread into the water for the ducks to eat. Everything seems so simple for the little family. He feels a pang of jealousy. Any good family memories he has have been tarnished because of his father. The city is bringing a lot of memories back, but at least he has Ainsley for support to keep him sane.

* * *

Everything is completely dark when Jackie steps foot into the house, which is strange because Gil's car is parked out front. Whenever she comes home after her husband, it's normal to walk in with Gil stretched out on the sofa wearing his reading glasses with one of his smutty romance books in his hands, or streaming YouTube cooking and baking videos on their TV. Gabe usually greets her at the door, meowing constantly and making figure eights between her legs, except tonight he's not. Jackie feels her way along the wall of the hallway until her fingers hook the light switch, blinking as her eyes adjust to the bright light of the overhead LEDs. Jackie manages not to lose her balance as she takes off her high heels and places them next to her husband's shoes. She spots a note taped to the hall mirror in Gil's hand: "Came home early. Migraine. Let me sleep. Remember to get ready for tomorrow so you don't have to rush. Love you."

Jackie frowns as she reads. Gil very rarely gets migraines—he tends to have them when he's stressed about work. Progress must either be slow or non-existent with the serial killer investigation. _Still_. It's been grating at him for the past few weeks. Not that Jackie can blame him. Serial killers don't happen everyday, and there's been a lot of pressure from the media to find the killer. His boss is breathing down his neck to get this guy caught as soon as possible. Also, it doesn't help that Gil suffers from trauma because of The Surgeon. She wishes she could make everything better. Seeing him like this and unable to help grates at her. Hopefully, Gabe is keeping him company. Their cat has a knack for being extra cuddly when they're sick or upset.

Jackie gently rips the note off of the mirror and holds it in her hand, padding down to the kitchen to figure out what to have for dinner. She's never been a good cook, not even a half decent one. Somehow she managed to mess up instant mashed potatoes, much to the confusion of everyone.People like to tell her that she's lucky to have a husband who cooks and bakes. Jackie thinks it is an old-fashioned way of thinking, to assign roles like that in a partnership. 

After dumping her purse on the dining room and turning on the light for the kitchen, Jackie places the note on one of the counters. Opening their freezer, she rummages around for something to eat and pulls out a frozen meal to make. As she waits for the microwave mac and cheese to heat for the first round, Jackie pulls out her phone and opens her Instagram account. She scrolls through the feed: LEGO photography, internet cats, and fan artists. Her thumb stops briefly before scrolling up to a post that caught her attention. It's a new photo from Malcolm Bright, and it's been geotagged from Brooklyn. He's already in the city, she thought. It's so cool that her favorite author is close by. As far as she knows he lives in Washington D.C It's relatively close to New York, but Jackie has never visited the nation's capital. Judging by the picture, Bright is having a great time. The photo is a selfie of the author standing to the left of a target, and in the center of the target an axe is impaled into the wood. The caption is only three emojis: 🪓🎯💯. There's a lot of comments congratulating him, saying how cool it is, and a few about how attractive Bright is. Which he _is_ attractive. Someone would have to be oblivious not to notice. His blue eyes are his most striking feature, they're the bluest she's ever seen. The eyes portrayed intelligence and sincerity. Jackie goes ahead and leaves a short comment of her own of the emoji of the word cool and a smiley face with sunglasses. Jackie double taps the photo to heart it then taps on his username to go to his profile. Along with the axe throwing photo, he's posted an additional photo and a video. Jackie rears her head back and raises her eyebrows in surprise. Bright doesn't post too often, so when he does it's a treat. Three posts in one day? The world must be on fire. Jackie has been following him for five years, and usually Bright posts once a month—twice, if you were lucky.

She catches the microwave before the timer goes off. Gil tends to be a light sleeper because of his years as a beat cop, and the beep of the microwave has woken him before.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow," she hisses, taking the mac and cheese out by the sides of the hot plastic. To be a little wiser, she picks up the pair of kitchen shears to cut open the plastic. After removing and throwing out the encasing and stirring the food around with a fork, she puts it back on the turntable and sets the timer for the second round of cooking.

Jackie turns away and goes back to attend to the microwave. There's a minute and a half left on the timer. Picking up her phone off the laminatesurface, she opens the Instagram app again to Malcolm Bright's account. 

The second photo and most recent post is tagged with Central Park as the location. He's not facing the camera; instead, his profile is to the viewer. Bright is dressed in grey dress pants, matching vest, and a nice long sleeve shirt— his hands are buried deep into his pockets. His eyes are closed, there's a big smile on his face, and his head is tilted back with his face towards the sky. The sunlight hits Bright's body in a way that makes it seem like the sun shines only for him. Behind him is the Gapstow Bridge and a gorgeous view of the New York City skyline. There's no caption to this post, but Jackie thinks that it doesn't need one. It's a stunning photo, and she double taps it without thinking. She leaves the simple comment of 'Beautiful'. 

Jackie opens the microwave door mid-beep and grabs her nuked dinner. She mixes in Frank's RedHot and black pepper to flavor it. Standing at the counter to eat, Jackie feels a little defiant because it's a pet peeve of Gil's to not eat meals at the table. He grew up in a chaotic, but traditional home, where everyone kept their own schedules, but all of them made sure to be at dinner on time, no matter what. Gil said it was the only time everyone was together in one place. Jackie, on the other hand, didn't grow up like that. Her and Gil had two radically different experiences and thoughts on what defined a family.

Going back to Instagram, Jackie notices that the new video was posted eighteen hours ago— doing some quick math, that made it around one o'clock in the morning when it was uploaded. She checked Instagram for new posts when she woke up this morning and must have missed it in the shuffle of the non-chronological feed. It's definitely a new ASL music video, because those are the only ones he uploads. There's no caption to the post either, and there's four-thousand views with one-hundred comments. After tapping the screen and putting the volume on low, it takes her a few seconds to realize it's the song 'Watch What Happens Next' by Waterparks. The video starts off with the music playing, but the shot is of a brick wall and a grey cushioned chair. The camera is so still that it must have been filmed with a tripod. A moment later, Bright walks on screen from the left side and sits down in the chair. His hair is slicked back and out of his face as usual. He's wearing the same long white shirt that he was wearing in the Central Park photo, except here he has the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A tattoo peaks out from under the fabric, but she's unable to see any detail. Bright is bobbing his head along with the beat, shimmying his shoulders as he smiles cheekily at the camera. Once the words start, his hands come into view as he begins to sign and mouths the words. Bright has so much energy, his face is so open, so expressive, and he is dancing like nobody's watching. He's having so much fun. Jackie finds herself moving side-to-side to the beat of the song. She's so engrossed that she shovels and doctored up mac and cheese without waiting for it to cool down, and burns the roof of her mouth. 

Once finished, she tosses the empty container into the trash. Jackie yawns and stretches. She hadn't realized that she was so tired. The clock on her phone claims it is only right after eight o'clock. She did have a long day— she's been up since five in the morning. Jackie has to fight and advocate for the foster children under her watch, but some cases were harder than others and she dealt with a few hard cases today. Jackie barely had a decent break all day to even go to the bathroom. That could explain feeling wiped out. 

"Wow, that makes me feel old," Jackie grumbles to herself. She's almost _forty._ Her birthday isn't for another few months, but it feels like it's looming closer to doomsday all the time. 

After yawning again, Jackie decides to surrender and head up to bed. She's not packed up to go for tomorrow, but she'll turn on an alarm to wake her up early. Humming 'What Happens Next', Jackie turns off the lights downstairs, except for one in the living room, and goes to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wrongful conviction case that Malcolm tells Ainsley is an actual case. Marty Tankleff is a real person and you can absolutely follow him on social media. I heard about this case on an episode of the podcast 'Small Town Murder'. Check out the episode info here: https://twitter.com/MurderSmall/status/1268385103719182337
> 
> Join us at the Prodigal Son Trash discord server (18+). [Click here.](https://discord.gg/MyKracR)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments & kudos are love.


	5. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a month exactly you guys get a new chapter. Consider this an early birthday present from me (my birthday is tomorrow- August 8). 
> 
> Note for anyone who is reading as new chapters go up: I _finally_ added name signs. Took me long enough. Past chapters have been edited to reflect this. Malcolm's name sign is M- smart, Ainsley's is A- curious. Vijay's name is finger spelled here, but he's is V- smooth. I don't _think_ parents use name signs for their children. If I am wrong, please correct me. Other's name signs will be revealed and noted as the story progresses. 
> 
> If you're into playlists check out the one for this fic. It's updated when the chapters go up. [Listen here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7GUK3a5Nd8d3zfJISmr3jB?si=fd6ewDvDQ3et_hzy6UIVdw)
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> • The Hunted by Snow Ghosts

His father's cell hasn't changed at all in the last ten years. The walls are still the same shade of yellow with the thick brown trim. There's still no decorations or personal belongings displayed— not that there ever was, but it's odd to see nothing to reflect the person's living space. In the corner next to the left of the door is a plain white metal chair that Mr. David occupies whenever Malcolm comes to visit, except that the man isn't present this time. The object that dominates the room is the giant iron-barred cage. It's an object that Malcolm has always found terrifying, yet reassuring at the same time. The cage itself is intimidating. There's a finality to it. The thick bars that enclose you in a small space prevent an escape— prevent freedom. It reminds him of the tale of the Man in the Iron Mask— a man trapped for the rest of his life for his crimes. At the same time that's why the prison can be so calming, his father will reside here for the rest of his life, unable to hurt another person ever again. It's where a serial killer deserves to be.

He blinks several times, realizing that he is already in the cage, sitting on the floor in one of the corners. His knees are pulled up to his chest, and he's dressed in his old Harvard sweater. He doesn't even have that anymore, it was lost at a party three years ago. His hook-up of the night most likely went home wearing it while Malcolm wore their Beyonce Formation World Tour shirt all the way back to his apartment.

He looks up and sees his father sitting on his bed, very relaxed with his legs stretched out and ankles crossed. They stare at each other for several moments, analyzing each other to see what they can read. They often did this. Martin started it as a game with his son— a way to make Malcolm smarter and better than others. Being able to evaluate how others feel and think will only serve to help you in the end. To figure how someone will react to a situation that hasn't happened yet. Looking back on it, Malcolm sees that his father was training him to be a murderer. Reading a room is very important when stalking your next kill.

In comparison to Martin's look of ease, Malcolm feels like he wants to shrink in on himself. He feels vulnerable here— his truths, his fears, his lies, all of his doubt lay exposed at his father's feet. Locked in the cage meant for his father, Malcolm shivers at the thought of the path he could have followed if his father's plan of turning his son into a killer had worked.

Martin makes the first move, raising his hands and signing, _"You look good, M-A-L."_

 _"You look the same."_ His father is wearing his Claremont issued jumpsuit with the numbers 5289 stitched across his breast, his hair is neatly trimmed and combed. In fact, even though it has been ten years, Martin's hair is still black— a lighter tone that hints of turning grey soon. But still, it's all the same. _"Why haven't you changed?"_ Malcolm asks.

 _"This is how I looked the last time I saw you."_ Martin gives him an expression that means he expected better from his son. _"This is your dream after all."_

Malcolm huffs. _"I know that."_

_"Then why did you bother to ask?"_

_"It is my dream. Or nightmare. I can imagine and ask whatever I want."_

_"Keep telling yourself that, my boy."_ Martin swings his legs over the side of the cot and stands up. In response, Malcolm finds himself standing as well. _"Do you remember the last time we saw each other?"_ His father circles Malcolm, staring intently, hyper-focused. 

_"Of course I do. I told you I was going away and would never see you again, and that I meant it."_

He sees a figure out of the corner of his eye. Malcom whips his head around, but sees nothing. He has an eerie feeling that he can't shake off.

There's a breeze in the air, and Malcolm turns to see his father waving his arm in the air to get his attention. _"Tell me, M-A-L-C-O-L-M. Why did you leave? Why did you stop seeing me?"_ he signs.

 _"I moved to D-C."_ Malcolm signs quickly. Once he stops, he clenches his right fist as hard as he can to force the tremor to stop. Even in a dream he has a tremor. 

_"Oh no, no, no. It's something more than that. Tell me… why did you abandon me?"_

Malcolm feels the hair on the back of his neck stick up. There must be someone there, someone in the room with them. He lifts his hands to sign, but before signing a word, he spins on his heel to confront the figure… only to see that no one is there.

_"What's wrong, son? There's nothing there. There never has been. I've told you that it was a dream."_

Malcolm tilts his chin up, glares at him. _"What? How did you know I saw something?"_

_"You've never been able to hide very much from me. Plus it's obvious since you keep looking over your shoulder every five seconds."_

Suddenly, there's a blonde haired woman standing in front of him. He knows it's a woman because of the curves of her body. The exact features are blurry, but her sunken eyes are striking. The woman lifts her hands and signs,

_"Find me."_

Malcolm's eyes open, and he sits up so fast that it makes him dizzy. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes several deep breaths to reorientate himself. 

_I'm fine_ , he recites from all the years he's dealt with this. _I'm fine. I'm safe. I'm safe. It was a nightmare. It was a nightmare. I'm by myself, so I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't hurt anyone. It wasn't real. It wasn't real._

Malcolm slowly cracks one eye open, then the other. He's in his new loft. It's unfamiliar, but he knows he's safe. The only people with keys to the building and his deadbolted front door are him and his mother. There's no way anyone else can get inside. He's safe.

Malcolm flicks the locks and removes his hands from the restraints. He rubs his wrists, noticing the pink rash that has formed in the middle of the night. Malcolm loosens the too tight cuffs, and slips them on again. Now they're too loose, so he adjusts the straps a few more times until he gets it right. Once all that's done, he unlatches his ankle cuffs, and pulls his knees up to his chest and hides his face in his thighs.

The Girl in the Box.

He's never stopped thinking about her— Malcolm has accepted that it is something that will haunt him for the rest of his life. Some times are better than others. Trauma ebbs and flows. It seems that he's beginning one of his flow periods. It shouldn't be surprising that it's kicked up again. He'll be in New York for an extended period of time, and his tremor has returned. Malcolm heaves a great sigh. At least he had the foresight to request the bed restraints even though he hasn't had a night terror in almost a year. Hell, Malcolm hasn't had a night terror guest starring her in two and a half years. 

Trauma ebbs and flows. Always.

Checking his phone, the glow from the screen tells him it’s two-thirty in the morning. Well he got an hour of sleep.That's a positive. Malcolm sighs and his head hits the pillow. His sister should be arriving at ten, which would give him a solid eight hours of sleep, _if_ he went back to sleep. However, he knows from experience that he's not going to go back to sleep— or at least not for a few more hours. Knowing his luck he'll start feeling tired at nine-fifty-five. 

Malcolm closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He tries to relax his body, release all of the tension he's holding— shoulders, arms, back, knees, and feet. Once his muscles feel loosened, he continues deep breathing exercises to calm himself. Malcolm goes over in his head what he needs to do, put together Sunshine's cage, find all of his pens because somehow he's already lost a decent chunk of them, get a hold of the court transcripts from the Tankleff trial to pour over, unpack his suitcase. He thinks of the things he wants to do: exercise and finish watching Paris is Burning. Malcolm needs to distract himself, keep telling himself that everything is okay, and not to beat himself up. He knows that now that he has had the nightmare, the Girl in the Box will continue to be on his mind for some time. There's only uncertainty and worry when it comes to her. Malcolm knows that there was a Girl in the Box, no matter what anyone else says. He wonders where she is, what happened to her. Did she become the twenty-fourth victim of The Surgeon? Where did her body go? Where would he have dumped her? She is his obsession, and Malcolm wants to know everything there is to know about her disappearance. 

Malcolm sits up and gets out of his new bed. He might as well get started on things. If he stayed in bed doing nothing, he'll think of nothing at all but her, going nowhere. 

* * *

Practically running down the stairs, Jackie's heart beats out of her chest. She rushes to her open purse on the dining room table and throws a travel bottle of hand sanitizer and a pack of gum into it. Then, without pausing for breath, she dashes to the gold table in the hall, grabbing her wallet and keys and repeating the process, and again with a portable charger, Tide-To-Go pen, and a few scrunchies.

Jackie chooses to ignore the amused snicker coming from her husband sitting at the table with his morning coffee. Granted, she's glad that he's recovered from his migraine. She hates to see him in pain like that. Typically Gil is smug and cheerful the next day, which is good, except for right now when he directs his smugness towards her. It is not appreciated.

From the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of her sunglasses case. She quickly checks to see if her glasses are actually in the case, and once confirmed that they are, into the purse they go.

"Shit." Jackie curses when she sees how she looks passing by the hall mirror. She still needs to put on her makeup. Growling to herself, she climbs up the stairs two at a time. She hears Gil openly laugh now, not trying to hold back his amusement of the situation any longer. 

She's running later than she had planned for the book signing. The signing _starts_ at twelve-thirty, and the confirmation email said to _arrive_ by noon. It will take a half hour to get to the bookstore from their place. Jackie still has a lot of getting ready to do and it's already eleven o'clock. Going through the motions of putting on simple blush and a muted tone of pink lipstick, she thinks about what she'll say when it's her turn to meet Malcolm Bright. She's never been to a book signing. She's met celebrities before at comic cons, so she knows how to act and avoid coming across as a douchebag. Every famous person is different from the next at events where they are in close contact with fans. Some only wanted to give fist bumps, some are completely fine with close, long hugs, others want to keep interaction to a minimum while a rare few will chat with you all day long if they could. Jackie wonders how Bright will act, especially with being deaf. She thinks he's rather brave. From her research most deaf and hard of hearing celebrities didn't do public appearances because of the communication barrier. It must have taken a lot of courage for him to step up like this. 

Jackie picks out a floral patterned maxi dress and slips it on. She snags four of Bright's books off her dresser that she set aside several days ago for this purpose. She spins around to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything she needs from upstairs— which is nothing— and flies down the steps. Unlike everything else, she gently eases the books into her bag. In no way is she chancing damaging them. After double checking that she has everything, Jackie dashes to the kitchen and grabs a random doughnut wrapped in tin foil from the fridge to eat on her drive to Manhattan. She's hoping it's one of the two glazed left, and not one of the blueberry doughnuts. She loves her co-workers, and can never complain when someone brings in food to the office, but blueberry? Really? She'll eat it, but it's not her first, second, or even third choice of doughnut flavor. Jackie lifts an arm in the air as a hurried wave as she passes Gil in the dining room. She's fairly certain that her husband calls out something like "Bye" or "Be safe" as she slips on her wedge sandals. Jackie calls out, "Love you!", dashes out the zzzx and moves as fast as she's able to her car parked down the street. Hopefully traffic isn't going to be murder.

* * *

Malcolm sits back on his heels and gives his sister a questionable gaze as he feels her feet stamp across the floor. She's been startled, and he is not sure why. Ainsley is clearly flustered— she makes a little scene of straightening her nice blouse and fixing her camera ready hair. When he finally catches her eye, he doesn't have to bother to ask her what's wrong. 

_"Your bird scared me."_ She's frustrated, her nose and mouth are scrunched up and her body is tense. 

_"Sunshine? Sunshine scared you?"_ Malcolm finds it so ridiculous that he's having a hard time holding back his laughter. _"How? She's the loveliest parakeet that has ever graced this planet."_

 _"Well, she freaked me out, M-."_ His sister's eyes sweep across the room until it lands to where Sunshine has perched at one of the windows looking over the street. _"One moment I'm relaxing on your couch sorting through all your pens when Sunshine just swoops down and flies past my head_."

Malcolm chuckles. _"She likes to do that."_

_"I didn't know she wasn't in her cage."_

_"You mean the cage I'm putting together right now?"_ Malcolm smirks, knocking two of the wooden perches together. 

His sister sticks out her tongue. _"Whatever."_ Ainsley shakes her shoulders like she's shaking something off them, and composes herself. " _You didn't have her when we talked last before you moved back."_ Ainsley's demeanor changes to be less irritated and more confused. 

_"I did have her."_ He finishes his current task on the birdcage before continuing on. _"I just didn't tell you."_

Ainsley glares at him suspiciously. _"What else aren't you telling me?"_

 _"Probably a lot,"_ he says honestly. Malcolm doesn't mean for it to sound flippant, but it's true. He can't possibly tell Ainsley everything about his life. With the whirlwind of recent events it doesn't shock him that he didn't mention that he got a pet bird. _"Does it bother you that I didn't tell you I have a pet?"_

 _"A little, yeah. I mean getting a pet is a normal topic to bring up. Like,"_ Ainsley takes a moment to think up examples. _"Like hey I made this yummy healthy recipe that I found on P-I-N-T-E-R-E-S-T that I got perfect on the first try. Hey, I found this new tv show that I binged watched in one weekend. Or hey, I got a pet bird, do you want to hear more about her? I mean if you were going to bring along a pet I figured it'd be a snake or something."_

Malcolm rolls his eyes. " _I haven't had snakes since I was fourteen_."

" _Having snakes in the house leaves a lasting impression. Especially that king snake."_ She shivers, pauses for a moment before continuing. _"What happened to your weapons collection? Are you having it all shipped here?"_

Malcolm shakes his head and lets out a pfft. " _I'm not here indefinitely. It'd be idiotic to move it all here, only to ship it back home in a few months. My collection will be just fine in D-C_."

" _My question still stands. Is anyone watching it for you_?"

" _My collection is not a pet_ ," he protests with a frown. He pauses for a beat, then admits, " _I have one of my friends checking on it from time to time_."

Ainsley smirks at being correct. " _Is your sitter sending you pictures_?"

Malcolm blushes, turning his face away to continue working on the last finishing touches of Sunshine's new home. _"Yes."_

When he looks over his shoulder, Ainsley bursts out laughing— doubled over and holding her stomach. Malcolm frowns. He doesn't see what's _so_ funny. He turns away from her and continues to work on Sunshine's new cage. He was able to go to a pet shop close by and purchase her a proper home. It's a better quality than the one she has in D.C. Malcolm is toying with the idea of bringing it back home with him. 

A shadow crosses his line of vision and he looks up at his sister. She's staring down at him expectedly. 

Malcolm scrunches up his face, raises his hands palms up, and shrugs. 

"Is that what you are wearing?" Ainsley speaks orally.

 _"What's wrong with this?"_ He looks down at his clothes— a simple pair of skinny jeans, a tight fitting polo shirt, and an old pair of Converse. It's nice and simple. He won't stand out like he would if he wore one of his expensive suits. Malcolm would appear to be more approachable this way. 

"You came to a family dinner in a tailored suit. You're going to your first public appearance, and you're dressed like some sort of hipster?"

_"I feel like it? Most authors dress casually to these kind of things."_

"Since when do you dress casually?"

He shrugs again and before turning his attention back to Sunshine's new cage he asks, _"Can't I try something new?"_ He's left alone in his task until Sunshine swoops down from the second floor and lands on his shoulder. " _Perfect timing_ ," he signs, more to himself than for his sister. Malcolm carefully guides Sunshine into her new home, smiling as he can tell she loves it instantly. He feels the vibrations of her purrs and her beautiful preened green feathers are relaxed.She hops around the new cage, seemingly to get acquainted with the space. 

When he stands he sees that his sister has moved over to the breakfast bar, looking through his messenger bag to make sure they have everything he needs for the signing. The store will provide everything that he'll need, but he still wants to bring his own sharpies, notebook, and post-its. His agent sent the book store promotional items like a large banner to go across the table he'll be sitting at, and freebies for fans like pens, bookmarks, USB drives, pop sockets, and magnets, all plastered with the cover of his new book and website url. All of it will be set up by the time he gets there, he doesn't have to worry about a thing. Technically. Malcolm knows himself well enough to understand that he will worry anyway.

Malcolm waves his arm in the air to get his sister's attention, and she looks up. " _Everything in there_?"

She signs yes. His sister makes her way to him, but stops a few feet away, and holds his bag to her chest like she's keeping it hostage. "I can't convince you to change your clothes, can I?"

Malcolm grins and signs no. Ainsley dramatically sighs and hands over his bag. He can't help but laugh at her antics as he slings the bag over his shoulders and feels it settle across his body. 

_"V-I-J-A-Y did approve my clothing choice."_

Ainsley raises her eyebrows, speaking verbally again so he has to watch her lips as she speaks. "You spoke with Vijay about what to wear?"

_"He is my agent."_

"And I'm your sister." 

He leans in, _"If I do another event I'll be sure to ask you what I should wear first."_

"Good enough," she responds. "Let's go."

Malcolm checks his pockets to make sure he has his phone and keys, then blows a kiss to Sunshine as he and Ainsley leave the loft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _swear_ that Jackie and Malcolm meet in the next chapter.
> 
> Join us at the Prodigal Son Trash discord server (18+). [Click here.](https://discord.gg/MyKracR)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments & kudos are love.


	6. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm not dead & neither is this fic. I've been working on my Prodigal Son big bang fic for a while. That fic went up yesterday so I can return to working on Coming Home. I thought I had already posted this chapter tbh. Surprise update for both us! 
> 
> This is posted on November 3, 2020 (US Election Day). Hopefully it will serve as a nice distraction.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking around. I love you guys.

The walk to The Strand isn't terrible. The weather is warm, but not too hot that Malcolm is sweating through his shirt. He has to hold back his laughter at how uncomfortable Ainsley looks in her nice clothes, and teases her for wanting him to dress in a suit, but doesn't. Malcolm tries to enjoy the surroundings of a city he hasn't been in for so long. It's different from D.C.— more hectic, but no less beautiful in its own way. The two of them chat about small insignificant things like recent movies they've both seen, or the weather, or particularly good meals they have eaten.

Once they get to the bookstore everything seems to happen at once. A manager swoops in the moment they step through the doors, and very excitedly shakes their hands. She says  _ something,  _ but she's talking too fast for him to catch any of it. They are ushered to the room where the book signing will take place.

Malcolm sees a long time of people twisting through the stacks of the store. He turns to his sister and signs,  _ "What's that about?" _

Ainsley rolls her eyes.  _ "They're here for you, bro." _

Malcolm whips his head back to the closest people to him who are queued up. All of them are talking— what about he's not sure, but what shocks him is that every single person is holding at least one copy of his books. 

_ "No fucking way." _

Ainsley answers by throwing her head back and laughing. 

The next half hour goes by in a blur. The manager, Amie, who seems very bubbly and personable, walks them through where everything is, where and when they will sit for the Q & A and to sign autographs, and his sister translates whenever Amie does not look at him. Malcolm can't help but look at it all in awe. There are two large cozy chairs for him and Ainsley to sit and talk to the audience. Not far away is a long table with free merch carefully laid out. At one end there's stacks of all his books for sale and at the other end are two chairs placed on a small riser where he assumes where they'll be for autographs. There's a stand up banner with the cover of his new book along with his name and logo as well. It's all so bizarre. Everything is centered around  _ him _ . Malcolm has spent the majority of his life trying to remain anonymous, even throughout his various jobs that require name recognition. He has made extra sure that Malcolm Bright can't be traced back to Malcolm Whitly. His palms are sweaty and he's starting to think this is turning out to be a horrible idea. 

Finally they are shown to an adjacent room that he's supposed to exit from when the time comes for the Q & A to start and he is introduced. The room is small, but has a friendly sort of atmosphere to it— like the managers try their best to make their guests feel comfortable. A green room, Malcolm's mind supplies. This is like a green room at a club. Vijay must have told the store what sort of things he likes because there's two bottles of sparkling water and multiple packs of red licorice. There's an outlet with USB Type-C ports to charge phones. It's decorated with artistic photos of colorful bookshelves and imaginative scenes created from pages of books. A glass coffee table — with a large coffee table book of course, and three comfy looking chairs around the table. 

Malcolm is able to crack the door open and watch the flood of people file into the large room. Every seat is filled and there's even some people standing around the perimeter of the room as well. His eyes grow wide. All of these people are here to see  _ him _ ? They're here to see him because they enjoy what he writes. They enjoy reading his books as an escape from life. If anything by the full house is to go by, he has been making so many people happy without even realizing. It's hard to believe that he's touched so many lives. It lifts his sprints and puts a smile on his face.

Ainsley taps his shoulder, points ahead and nudges him forward. Malcolm stumbles but quickly gets his balance and walks into view, and cannot believe what he sees. The entire room is standing on their feet. Clapping. For him. He has to admit that his sister and Vijay might be right about this public appearances thing. It's only when they have both sit that the applause dies down and the crowd takes to their seats if they have one. He smiles at his sister, and she smiles back with full confidence. Ainsley angles the chair perfectly to see Malcolm's signs to translate for him, but also in a way so that her words won't be lost on the audience. Malcolm takes a deep breath, turns his attention to the audience, and signs hello. He knows that Ainsley is interpreting well. Malcolm does his best to mouth his words as he speaks since that is second nature at this point.

_ "I'm M-A-L-C-O-L-M B-R-I-G-H-T, as you all know. I'm really happy to see you here today. I had no idea that so many people would show up or cared. Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart. To my left is the lovely A-I-N-S-L-E-Y W-H-I-T-L-Y. You might have seen her on TV reporting for A-D-N. Her and I go back a long way, and she will be my interpreter. You might be wondering why I need an interpreter. If you follow me on social media or have checked out my website before you'll already know the reason. I'm completely deaf, and have been since childhood. I cannot hear anything. I can lip read, but you must be facing me directly, and speak normally. If you speak too fast or too slow, I won't be able to understand you." _

He takes a moment to look at everyone staring at him. No one asked him, but Malcolm has felt terrified at what his fans would think of deafness. Malcolm has never wanted his disability to define him. He fears that that is all anyone will see him as. Malcolm scans the audience and there is a range of reactions. There's a few people who look annoyed— probably because they expected to hear him speak and not an interpreter. A few look surprised, but not discouraged. Most do not seem to be shocked so he gathers that they already knew.

There's one woman who catches his eye. She's excited— pure joy etches her face. She's wearing such a big smile that Malcolm finds infectious. She's sitting at the end of the first row, wearing a colorful summer maxi dress and wedge heels. The woman has wavy dark hair that goes down past her breasts. She has some make-up on, but it's not dramatic. A large bag sits at her feet and he can see a book peeking out from the top, and on her lap is the hardback copy of 'The Devil of Dayton'.

She's  _ beautiful _ . Malcolm is surprised at his reaction. Normally he doesn't find himself attracted to someone very often, but whoever she is must be one of the most gorgeous women he has ever seen.

Ainsley taps his shoulder to bring him back in the moment, giving him a questioning look. Malcolm waves her off, and resumes signing.

_ "As you know, this is my first public appearance, so I'm not sure what I'm doing. I hope I don't mess it up too badly. _ " To his delight, the audience collectively chuckles. " _ Let's open it up to questions. I'll be happy to answer almost anything." _

Hands raise and he picks out one at random. It's a young woman, probably no older than sixteen. Malcolm makes sure he looks at her as she asks her question. He and Ainsley discussed ahead of time that he'd do his best to lip read, and if something didn't make sense he'll look to her to translate.

"Hi, I'm Caitlin. I love your books. You're my favorite author."

Malcolm smiles and signs,  _ "Thank you. I'm glad to hear that." _

The girl blushes so much that her face matches her dark pink t-shirt. "I wanted to know what your hobbies are."

_ "My hobbies are a bit odd, actually. At least that's what others tell me." _ He thinks off the top of his head and rattles off:  _ "I love axe throwing. I've competed in national competitions in the past. I am a two time national silver medalist. I like to collect weapons like axes and swords. Ah, besides weapons, I enjoy karaoke and making sign language interpretations of songs. I post those videos on YouTube and Instagram. I love reading the classics. I've been told that I'm a man of many talents." _

Caitlin raises her hand in the air again, and Malcolm nods that she can continue. "How can you do karaoke if you're deaf?"

_ "Very easily! If you're hard of hearing or deaf you learn to concentrate on vibrations. With music there's always a beat to go along to. If the vibration is more heavy, the better I can understand. Also I watch the music videos and performances to get a handle on the words _ — _ like how I am mouthing the words I am saying right now. It's a lot of fun to do. I definitely suggest going to a concert or a karaoke night that is catered towards the deaf. Did I explain it well?" _

She nods and says her thanks, and sits back down.

Malcolm signs his own thanks, and takes the next question from a heavyset woman with short green hair. "What made you want to write novels?"

_ "I have chronic insomnia so I end up having a lot of time for things to do. I've loved true crime since I was a child and my interest in it has only grown as I've gotten older. I was in-between jobs at one point and bored out of my mind. I was watching a true crime documentary _ — _ don't ask which one because I don't remember _ — _ and the idea of writing about cases just popped into my head. I dug out my laptop and started researching. Now I'm here." _

The next question is from an eldery gentleman sitting in the first row. Malcolm isn't able to understand what the man says because there's long pauses between some words. In the end he turns to Ainsley and she translates:  _ "He wants to know if you have found any obstacles in your profession being a person who is deaf. I think he's a bit hard of hearing. I think I see a hearing aid." _

Malcolm turns back to answer him.  _ "Oddly enough there hasn't been many obstacles. In my job I don't interact with people that often unless it's with my agent or my editor. Both of them know I am deaf, of course. I mainly communicate with texts or email. My agent is an old friend of mine, and he's hard of hearing. Because of our similarities I have no trouble talking to him. If I am talking to my editor in person there can be an interpreter or I write down what I want to say. This kind of event is an obstacle for me because I can't hear any of you, and need A-I-N-S-L-E-Y to translate what I am saying. In regards to writing it can be difficult to describe sounds since I don't know what they sound like, or at least I have trouble remembering what they make. As I said before, I've been deaf for twenty years _ _ — _ _ I lost my hearing when I was ten. I'll have others look over my work and tell me if I got it right or if I need to change it. Overall I haven't had many difficulties with being an author and deaf." _

Malcolm keeps glancing over to where the woman is sitting, hoping that she'll raise her hand to ask a question. She hasn't so far, and every time he's disappointed. However, the woman is still smiling, listening with interest. 

Malcolm takes the next question from a black man sitting a few rows from the back. "If you had to write any other genre than crime, what would you write?"

Malcolm taps his chin to think.  _ "Oh wow, I never thought about that. True crime comes so naturally to me. Maybe I'd try history? Both require doing research so maybe I'd give that a try. Maybe I'd focus more on France in the late-seventeenth to mid-eighteenth centuries? One of my favorite novels is The Count of M-O-N-T-E C-R-I-S-T-O, and it's set around that time period. I was very obsessed with it when I was young." _

Malcolm scans around the edges of the room for any of the people who have been forced to stand to see if anyone has questions. He wants to make sure everyone has an opportunity to participate in the Q & A. Another teenage girl has her hand raised, and Malcolm makes sure he lifts his hand high enough in the air to point to her over the crowd, so it's clear who he picked. She points to herself, stunned that she has been called on. Malcolm signs yes. Right away the girl shuffle runs towards the front of the room, and stops a couple feet away from the woman who caught his eye. 

"Hi," she greets. "Can you tell what I'm saying?" Once Malcolm nods in the affirmative, the girl makes some sort of sound while grinning. She waves at him enthusiastically. "Hi," she repeats. "I'm Geeta. My question is about the new book. I looked through it while I was waiting in line. I wanted to know why you picked this case?"

_ "I like to pick cases that most people haven't heard about. Everyone knows who T-E-D B-U-N-D-Y is. Everyone knows about the unsolved murder of E-L-I-Z-A-B-E-T-H S-H-O-R-T. I try to write about the murders that I think are just as intriguing, but for some reason never caught attention to the national media. As for the reason that I picked this one, it's a case that I think needs to be investigated again. A lot of things don't add up. It's beyond bizarre. The police clearly botched their investigation on all fronts. I don't want to give anything away for you guys. But with this book I tried my best to remain unbiased, and not lean too heavily on one side or the other. I would love to see this case be re-opened. I think everyone deserves to know who killed this boy, and why, without a shadow of a doubt." _

Geeta does a cute jump, holding her hands together as she goes in the air. "Thank you for answering my question. I can't wait to finish the book."

Malcolm signs his thanks, and Geeta skips back to where she'd been standing. 

Next, Malcolm gestures to an Asian woman with gauges in her ears and a bull ring piercing through her nostrils, who is sitting in the exact center of the audience. 

"I'd like to know where are your favorite places to write."

_ "Oh that's an interesting question. I'm based in D-C, so my answers are a little different than if I lived here. If I'm at my apartment, I like to write on my couch. I can spread myself out, have all of my research material on the coffee table, easily have access to things like water and food. Now, if I'm out of my home, there are a few places I like. I'll write at a local S-T-A-R-B-U-C-K-S because it's catered to deaf and mute patrons. I can get a drink and a pastry and stay for a bit. I write at Yards Park. It's absolutely gorgeous there and very calming. Sometimes I'll go to write there if I am stuck on a particularly hard section." _

He points to another person who is directly behind the gorgeous woman. Once they stand up fully he sees that they are  _ tall _ , like Gwendoline Christie tall. He finds himself looking up at them. However, they speak much too fast for him to catch what they're saying so he turns to his sister.  _ "They asked how many drafts do you write before the book is published?" _

Malcolm screws up his face as he thinks about the answer.  _ "On average, I want to say two."  _ His sister taps his shoulder and he looks at her quizzically.

Ainsley speaks verbally so the audience can understand her. "Oh don't downplay how many."

_ "What do you mean?" _

It's interesting to see Ainsley both translating for him, and speaking for herself. She's still facing him, keeping eye contact except for a few moments when she slightly shifts her gaze to the audience so that she's not alienating them. Malcolm is very impressed. They're going back and forth like it's one of their typical bickering matches. She's doing so much more than he asked for, and is he proud of her for being able to do it.

"You  _ wish _ it was two drafts on average."

_ "I've written books with two drafts before." _

"Not on average. Your average is like seven."

_ "No, it is not." _

"Is too."

_ "Is not." _

"Is too, Malcolm. You write fast, but that doesn't mean that you have less drafts."

Suddenly, Malcolm remembers that they're bickering in front of an audience. He blushes deeply, but is slightly relieved to see that everyone, including the one who asked the question to begin with, are laughing. 

_ "Obviously we have differences in opinion. We'll just say anywhere from two to seven drafts."  _

He picks a young man in the last row. "I have two questions. If you weren't an author, what profession would you pick? Also what did you want to be when you grow up?"

A memory flashes in Malcolm's mind. He's a young boy sitting next to his father in the hobby room. His father is showing him his detailed anatomy drawings, teaching him all of the different body parts and how they all work. His father smiles and praises Malcolm for answering a question correctly. Another memory replaces that one. His father has kneeled down so they are at the same eye level. His father looks manic, different from what Malcolm is used to, like a new person is in front of him. He remembers how Martin's voice sounded clearly. "My boy, I will always love you. Because we are the same."

His right hand trembles and he quickly flexes his fingers to attempt to make it less obvious. Malcolm knows that Ainsley is concerned. He's not looking at her, but he knows. Malcolm schools his face and answers the question.  _ "If I wasn't an author I would have liked to join law enforcement, maybe the F-B-I. A criminal profiler sounds interesting and challenging. Sadly, that hope was dashed because they don't allow the deaf or hard of hearing become agents. Now when I was a child…" _ He pauses and takes a deep breath, and exhales.  _ "When I was a child I wanted to be a doctor. Thank you. Next question, please." _

The hour seems to go by quickly. Malcolm finds that he's loving soaking up the attention, it's given him quite a confidence boost. And it's  _ fun _ . Getting to see so many people— so different by age, race, and ethnicity gathering in one place to talk about something they collectively love is amazing.

Finally the time comes to wrap up the Q & A to his dismay. Malcolm thanks everyone for coming, and that because of this experience he hopes to do another appearance in the future. The crowd is ecstatic and claps harder at this announcement. He signs his goodbye, and is brought to the long table to sit for autographs.

Ainsley taps his shoulder to get his attention.  _ "Good job. You handled everything well." _

He knows what she means and signs his thanks. 

"You looked like you were having fun." Ainsley smirks at him and gives him 'I told you so' look.

Malcolm rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue like a child. There's a thud in front of him and he's startled to see a large man with a grim face standing in front of him with three of Malcolm's books on the table. Malcolm can't help but grin broadly, picking out one of his favorite pens.  _ "This is my first autograph." _

A moment later the man's face changes to pure joy. Malcolm pays attention to his lips as he speaks: "Can you write that down?"

Everything blurs by once again. Book after book after book gets signed on the title page. After what seems like the hundredth book his hand is starting to cramp. An older lady shuffles her way to stand in front of him. She looks like the first image hit on Google for the phrase "Russian babushka". She only has one copy of his new release for him to autograph, which as Malcolm is discovering is rather rare. Most everyone has brought him five books to sign. He takes it and before he can say hello, she interrupts. Malcolm can't tell what she is saying because she's talking so slowly. He turns to Ainsley for her to translate, and to his surprise he finds that his sister isn't bothering to translate, but instead is speaking to the old woman. It's proving to be difficult to tell what Ainsley is saying by the speed she's talking as well. Malcolm feels lost. The woman must have said something to get his sister riled up.

The next person in line comes into view, stepping out of place and standing to the side of the old woman. Malcolm can clearly tell that they say: "Hey, why don't you stop badgering him? He's not here to be your personal author. He can write whatever the fuck he wants." Malcolm's eyes widen as he realizes that the woman who he spotted in the crowd is the one coming to his defense. He finds her even more attractive up close. It's so cliche and it makes me cringe on the inside, but it's so true. She takes his breath away.

The old woman purses her lips, but doesn't respond. She snatches her book and storms off. Malcolm didn't even get a chance to sign it.

The beautiful woman takes a moment to glare at the other fan before stepping to the front of the table, in front of Malcolm. He runs his eyes up and down her body. 

The woman smiles down at him, then lifts up her hands and signs, " _ Sorry about her. You shouldn't have to deal with people like that _ ."

Malcolm smiles so bright that his cheeks hurt. " _ You know A-S-L? _ "

_ "Sort of,"  _ she signs and speaks.  _ "I'm very out of P-R-A-C-T-I-C-E." _

Malcolm's eyes lit up and he's sure he looks like a fool grinning from ear to ear. He shows her the sign for practice **,** and she makes an 'o' shape with her mouth and repeats the sign correctly.

_ "Why did you learn? _ " he asks.

" _ I had a couple of friends who were deaf when I was a kid. I learned A-S-L for them. You're S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E-D? _ "

" _ It's not like everyone knows it. It's refreshing when I can properly communicate and not with a phone or paper."  _ he explains.

The woman responds to that by smiling sincerely.  _ "Looks like you have me then."  _

Malcolm feels his cheeks heat up at that. That simple statement could be taken a few different ways and he couldn't help but interpret it as something more. She doesn't mean it like that of course. 

_ "I'm good company to be with, or so I've been told." _

Malcolm definitely is blushing now. Is she actually flirting with him? Or just being friendly? He's so out of practice that he isn't sure which it is.

_ "I'm glad that I'm in good company." _

There's a tap on his shoulder and Malcolm cranes his neck to see his sister wearing a shit eating grin on her face.  _ "Bro, you have a lot more people waiting in line." _

" _ Oh, who should I make this out to _ ?" The pen feels slightly slippery in his hands as he grabs the top book in her stack to sign. He flips to the title page and looks up at her for her answer. 

" _ J-A-C-K-I-E _ ."

He signs all of her books with care, so his signature and general message of  _ Thank you for coming to my first book signing _ are one-hundred percent legible, unlike the past several books he's autographed. He pushes all of her books towards her, and as she's busy picking them up, he raps on the top book to get her attention. Once her curious eyes are looking into his, he asks, " _ Hey would you like to get coffee later _ ?"

Malcolm wants to kick himself for asking. What came over him to ask such a thing? Is he really hitting on a fan? What kind of person does that make him?  _ "I mean it's okay if you don't want to. It's weird because we just met, but I find you interesting."  _ He really wants to kick himself after saying all that. He really needs to stop talking. 

But Jackie bites her lower lip, eyes him up and down. " _ I'd love to _ ," she signs. _ "Are you doing anything after this is over?" _

Malcolm shakes his head no.  _ "Nothing at all. Did you want to get coffee when I'm done here?"  _ He knows that the last few signs come rather slowly, but his brain is still trying to process that Jackie said  _ yes.  _ He repeats his question a few times after Jackie's puzzled look at his clumsy signing.

_ "Yeah,"  _ she says.  _ "If it's alright with you?"  _ Malcolm swears that Jackie is blushing now, which makes his face go an even deeper shade of red.

_ "Of course. It's… that's great."  _

_ "I'll be waiting over there."  _ She points in the direction of all the empty chairs where the audience had been sitting. Jackie bites the corner of her lower lip again.  _ "See you then." _ She waves goodbye, and he watches her go. He's surprised when she turns back and seems equally surprised that he's looking at her.

Another tap on his shoulder from his sister shakes him out of his stupor. Malcolm smiles at the next person in line and apologizes. 

A half hour later almost all of the audience have left, there's only a few stragglers. There's a group of three middle aged women half blocking the entrance to the room that leads to the rest of the book store, a man with short salt and pepper hair and beard taking his time gathering his belongings. Malcolm tilts his head to the side, thinking. He's pretty sure that the man didn't come up for an autograph. There were some people who came to book signings and didn't get a book signed or come up to talk to the author, but for someone like that to stay after it was all said and done was a little odd.

He is a little startled when there's a light tap on his shoulder. Malcolm turns to see his sister over his shoulder, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

_ "She's waiting for you."  _ Ainsley lifts her chin to indicate who she means.  _ "Did you want me to tag along and translate?"  _

Malcolm glares at her.  _ "I'll be just fine thank you."  _ He chews the inside of his cheek, a little nervous about what he wants to say. He knows he probably shouldn't, but it's going to eat at his mind until he knows what happened earlier.  _ "A-I-N-S-L-E-Y, what happened with that old lady? I didn't catch any of it." _

Ainsly's eyes harden suddenly, and he can tell that her hackles have raised-- she's standing to her full height, chin lifted in the air, Malcolm's eyes drift down for a second and sees that she's balled up her fists. Whatever the woman said clearly pissed her off.

_ "A-I-N-S-L-E-Y, what did she say?" _

_ "I'm not telling you." _

He can feel his temper slowly beginning to surge to the surface.  _ "What are you hiding from me?" _

_ "I'm not--" _

Malcolm clicks his fingers in front of her face-- a habit he gained to get someone's attention during a conversation.  _ "What are you hiding from me?"  _ He makes sure his face conveys how serious he is. 

Ainsley closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and looks him straight in his eyes.  _ "She was pestering you-- criticizing you." _

_ "That's nothing new." _

_ "She wanted to know why you haven't written about The Surgeon." _

The bottom falls out of his stomach. It's not the first time, and it certainly will not be the last, that a fan requests that he do a particular case. Every time he says no. Why would he want to write a book about the Manson Family or JonBenét Ramsey when it's been done so many times that it's practically ingrained in culture so much _ everyone _ knows the facts. If there's anyone who knows the Surgeon's murders, it's  _ him _ .

His father's face is manic, like nothing he'd seen before. All Malcolm can think is how dark his hair is, how red the sweater he wore is, how even though he's handcuffed and about to be taken away, hopefully forever, his father still takes a moment to kneel in front of Malcolm, to speak to him and look him right into his eyes as he spoke. 

"My boy, I will always love you, because we are the same."

Malcolm stands there in the cold night, staring at his father in confusion as his father is lifted up and taken away to the back of a squad car.

A small hand wraps around his fist and Malcolm shakes it off instinctively, flinching. He's met with the familiar dark eyes of his sister. Worry etches her features. She knows what just happened.

_ "Can I touch you? Hold your hand?" _

Malcolm doesn't have to look down to know that his clenched fist is shaking uncontrollably. He nods once, and just like that Ainsley slowly reaches out and circles one hand around his wrist, and the other cradles his fist, stroking her thumb along the knuckles to help ground him. 

He breathes deeply, in and out, in and out. He chooses to do the five things method for anxiety-- or what he likes to call the four things method since he's deaf.

Five things he can see. Ainsley. Books shelved along the wall. His messenger bag, sitting propped up on one of the chairs where he had been sitting for the whole signing. The hardwood floor. A bottle of Nesquik Twix chocolate milk left behind on one of the folding tables. 

Four things he can touch. The glass face of his Patek Phillippe against his skin. The soft and bendable covers of a few of his paperback books. The cold, metal eyelets of his shoe against his bare skin. The smooth denim clinging to his legs.

Malcolm ignores the third step. 

Two things he can smell. His masculine smelling deodorant-- he's not a fan of it so far. He bought it last night at the closest drug store from his loft, because even though he promised himself to pack light and only the essentials, he forgot to pack deodorant. Malcolm can also smell a light hint of lemon scented disinfectant.

Lastly, one thing he can taste. This is always the hardest of the four. He focuses hard, produces spit in his mouth and runs his tongue along his teeth. There's still some leftover taste of the lemon flavored toothpaste.

_ "Thank you." _

She shakes her head.  _ "No reason to thank me." _

He sees his sister looking over his shoulder, and Malcolm turns his head to see that Ainsley is looking at where Jackie is sitting. She has her head down, and Malcolm can't help but smile when he sees that she's opened to the beginning of his new book, most likely she's started reading it. Her long dark curls hang in front of her face, and she pulls some back and tucks the strands behind one of her ears. 

Malcolm is fairly certain that Ainsley has tapped his shoulder quite a few times before he registered it. The look of agitation quickly fades into one of worry and concern.  _ "Don't be stupid." _

_ "What?" _

_ "Don't be stupid. With her. You fall too fast and too hard, M-. I don't want to see you get hurt. Don't be stupid." _

_ "What makes you think that I'll fall for her in the first place? I've barely met her." _

_ "I know, and that is what worries me. I've seen you like this before, and it never ends well."  _ She looks down at her shoes for a brief moment, shaking her head. Once she looks back up, she signs,  _ "Text me, okay? So I don't have to worry."  _ Ainsley waits a few beats, and signs with more vigor.  _ "Okay?" _

Malcolm concedes,  _ "Okay. I'll keep you updated on my whereabouts. There is no need to be worried. Honest." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments & kudos are love.
> 
> Join us at the Prodigal Son Trash discord server (18+). [Click here.](https://discord.gg/MyKracR)
> 
> The title of Malcom's upcoming release shares the same name and subject matter as an episode of the podcast, Small Town Murder. I highly recommend listening to the episode, and to the show as well. https://twitter.com/MurderSmall/status/1024923880517861376


End file.
